


Shadow Rising

by BrightLotusMoon



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: ADHD Mikey, All My Characters Are Neurodivergent Like Me, All the Turtles are autistic, Autistic Donnie, Autistic Mikey, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Hurt Mikey, I wrote this Twenty Years Ago, Pansexual Mikey, Psychic Mikey, neurodivergent characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightLotusMoon/pseuds/BrightLotusMoon
Summary: Michelangelo has spent the past year trying to figure out the psychic powers he got while accidentally discovering alien beings, while also recovering from a near-fatal battle with a human telepath who resented his existence. Now comes an even larger problem in the form of yet another human scientist for whom Mikey becomes a brand new experiment.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in an old document. Written in the year 2000 as a sequel to my original fic "Cold Fire" this tale was inspired by a lot of 80s and 90s sci-fi stuff. It was never finished and is in fact the ultimate self-indulgent, self-insert: I gave a random character my own name.  
> Back then, 2003 did not even exist, so this is based on a combination of what came before: Mirage, 87, Archie, the 90s films. However, as I look back on it, this totally fits 2003.

  1. Fire



Michelangelo pressed his hand against the small round hole of window, watching the clouds roll by, watching the blueness beyond. The drone of conversation lulled around him as passengers ate the in-flight meals and relaxed. He glanced at his watch. 12:49 pm. They had been in the air for about three hours. The flight attendant wheeled a cart by his seat. He shook his head.

Strange how there was no one else next to him, he thought. He was alone in the blueness, the grayness, and people continued all around him, not even taking notice of the large mutant turtle in their midst. It didn't bother him, though. It didn't seem to bother anybody else. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

Someone tapped his shoulder from behind, and he twisted in his seat to find a young girl looking at him; around eight or so. "Hi," she said. "Do you want a cookie? I have a few left." She held out a bag of Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip. With a smile, Mike accepted. He bit into it, relishing the taste. And yet suddenly found that he couldn't finish it. It wasn't the taste; it was him. Something didn't feel right. His stomach felt twisted, as though his body were preparing for panic. He shook his head.

The plane lurched suddenly, bouncing and jolting sharply, and the pilot's voice came over the intercom, assuring them it was just turbulence, that it would clear up in a few minutes. And it did. But not before Mike smelled smoke.  
The knot in his stomach tightened. Smoke. As if drawn there, he looked out the window, where he had a view of the right wing with the red tip. And the fire.

 _Fire...?_ Mike's stomach dropped. _Oh my god--the wing's on fire!_ Why didn't anyone see it? Wouldn't the pilots know? He gripped the arms of the seat like death, gritting his teeth. As an attendant passed by, he waved to her.  
"Call the captain," he said hoarsely. "The right wing is on fire."

Her brow furrowed. "Sir, are you sure?"

He swallowed against the ice in his throat. "Look--look out the window. Can't you smell it? The smoke..."

Leaning over him, she looked. And gasped in horror. "Oh my god...I'll let him know right away. Thank you." Terror had been in her voice, but the flatness he knew--a way of coping with the unimaginable. If you closed your eyes, it would go away. If you just didn't think about it, didn't want to see it, it would just...

"Mommy!" the little girl behind him cried. "The wing is on fire!"

And then all hell broke loose.

Flurry of movement, screams of panic and terror, the captain's voice over the speakers...the plane's sudden deep drop, downward plunge, shaking structure...he could smell the flames now. They were inside the plane.

And then suddenly he knew.

 _The cargo bay. There's a bomb in the cargo bay! Someone's sabotaging the plane!_ Michaelangelo stood up in a rush, moving, out into the aisle, toward the back, perfectly calm save for the pit of ice inside him. The bomb, he thought.

Too late...too late...

A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. Somewhere, a child was crying. Time slowed to a deadly crawl. Like a ghost, he saw the face of the digital watch float before him. 12:52.

The plane exploded.

* * *

Michaelangelo jerked up in bed, screaming in terror, clawing at the air. Sweat poured down his skin; he could feel the heat. Flames rushed toward him, reaching out with grasping tongues, searing, burning, and he could hear the children...he could hear the screaming...he could feel them die...and then someone grasped his shoulders...

"Mikey! Easy, Mike, it's okay. It's a dream. Just a dream. Relax, Mikey. Relax." 

No. Not now. Not ever. _Can't you hear them, they're dying! Somebody help them! Somebody stop--_

"Mike!" Someone shook him, and he realized that he could barely breathe. He sucked in deep lungfuls of air, sweat drenching his skin.

"Mike, look at me. Open your eyes. Mike, answer me!"

"No," he gasped. "N-no...oh god, no..." _Two hundred and ten. Dead. No. No. No._ He opened his eyes, stared up into Leonardo's worried face, before dropping his head into his hands and feeling tears gather thickly in his throat.

* * *

"You're gonna have to tell us at some point," Raphael said bluntly, sitting in the chair with his legs crossed. One foot swung up and down. His arm rested over the back of the chair, and he fixed his brother with a pointed gaze.

"I can't." Mike stared down at the red and white checkered tablecloth, swallowing hard.

"Can't, or won't?" Raph asked, leaning forward. "Mikey...come on, we're your family here. It's no secret anymore. Not after a whole year."

Gritting his teeth, Michaelangelo kept his head lowered. "I can't..."

In the other chairs, Leo and Don exchanged glances. "Was it that bad?" Leo asked gently. "What happened?"

Mike pressed his hands to his ears. "Shut up," he whispered. "Don't make me remember. Please."

Raph's fingers scraped against the tablecloth. "Shit," he whispered, shutting his eyes. When he looked at his brother, there was a glint of pain in them. "Are you okay?"

"No," Mike whispered.

Splinter stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at them. "My sons, it is almost noon. You should practice."

"Right. Right." Scraping back his chair, Leonardo stood up. "Michaelangelo--"

Mike stood up slowly. "I'm coming," he whispered.

* * *

The face of the little girl who had offered him the cookie flashed before him. Instinctively, he threw up an arm as if to ward the image off. Raphael's sai struck the sticks of his nunchucks, and then moved back with a rush of air, as its owner waited for him to move.

Slowly, Mike stepped forward, struggling to find balance as shadows swept over him again. He struck out, blindly, at the flames, at the screams, and when he felt the dagger move toward his neck with almost blinding speed, he didn't bother to block.

* * *

"How long has it been since we started--"

"Almost two hours," Leo said. "Let him rest."

"He's not sick, is he?" Raph persisted.

Don shook his head. "I don't think so. It's something else."

"You've got blood on your hand," Raph pointed out.

Glancing down, Don saw the smear of blood, not his, that still lingered. He closed his eyes and saw the white towel turn red. Beside him, Raphael made a small moan in his throat.

"Damn it, I shouldn't have--"

"Raph." Leo put a hand on his shoulder. "It was an accident. He just wasn't paying attention when you attacked. It happens."

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Raph sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

* * *

Mike opened his eyes. He was lying in the infirmary bed, feeling groggy. What had happened? If he could just remember...

He touched the side of his neck. Bandage.

_What--?_

He remembered.

 _A cut. Just a cut. Raph nicked me. I lost concentration and didn't move away in time. Just a cut._ Then why was he in the infirmary?

He closed his eyes, reaching out, grasping at the wandering threads of thought that weren't his. Don. Raph. He saw blood trickling, saw a white towel pressing against his own neck, saw it soak red. _Who'd've thought a cut could bleed so much?_ He remembered passing out. And then here.

 _Raph...don't be sorry. It was an accident._ He waited. The clock read 1:50. And then Raph appeared in the doorway.

"You're awake," he said, and Mike could hear the strain in his voice. "And I am sorry."

"No," Mike whispered, holding out his hand. Raph came forward and took it. They stayed like that, brother to brother, until Mike sat up all the way and forced a smile. "I'm fine, see?" He reached up and took off the gauze taped to his neck. "See?--"

He cut off when Raphael gasped. "What? Raph, what?"

Raphael was staring, eyes wide. "It's...closed," he said. "Mike, it--there's barely even a scar. It's gone!"

Mike's hand flew to his neck, finger tracing the raised scar that should have been there. His breath hitched in his throat. On a nearby table, a glass vial exploded.

Raphael jumped. "Control, Mike! Relax!"

Michaelangelo squeezed his eyes shut. It was starting again.

* * *

They walked into the living room, where Don and Leo sat watching the early news.

Leonardo looked up and grinned in relief. "Hi," he said. "You okay?"

Mike nodded. "Uh huh."

Don handed them both glasses of Coke. Raphael joined the two on the couch. Mike stood behind it, watching the screen. Watching.

"--reporting live from--"

"Wait," Don said. "Don't change it."

"--approximately 12:52 this afternoon, Flight 642 exploded violently in mid-air, killing all two hundred and ten on board. Investigations are currently being done and police are searching for any eyewitnesses, but so far no real clues have been found. We now go to--"

Michaelangelo couldn't breathe. A vibration caught and rocked through his body, pounding in his chest, his head. 12:52. Red-tipped wings. Bomb in the cargo bay. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. The glass in his hand shuddered. He barely felt it slide from the sweat-slicked palm, barely felt it crack with psychic force, barely felt the shards pierce his skin. All he could hear was the roaring of flames and the screams of over two hundred people, screams of children...

Everything went black. He didn't even feel it when his head struck the floor.

Someone was calling his name, like a wisp of an echo, and he found himself suddenly repulsed. Did they expect an answer? Why didn't they leave him alone? The darkness was comforting, soft around him like a blanket. The light hurt him; why did they think it was necessary to drag him out? It wasn't as if lives depended on it...

And then he remembered the screams. The smell of fire stung his nose. He moaned.

"Mikey?" the voice murmured again. "I think he's coming around."

In his mouth he tasted chocolate. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

"Mike?" Leonardo's face floated into view. "Mike, how many fingers am I holding up?"

He blinked, frowning. "You only have three," he murmured.

"Fair enough." Leo dropped his hand to his side. "Can you sit up?"

"I think so..." He pushed himself up, realizing he was lying on the couch. Something stung, like pinpricks. He winced.

"You cut your hand," Splinter said quietly, as if reading the question on his face. Gently, he took Mike's left hand and began to dab at the wound with a cotton ball. Mike flinched. No shards. And the wound was already starting to...

"No--" He jerked the hand away, pressing it to his plastron. "I mean...I'll take care of it. It's not that bad."

Splinter gazed at him, black eyes glittering. He knew. Mike's eyes widened. He _knew._

"Michaelangelo," Splinter said softly. "There is no need to hide it. I fully expected you to regain your psychic strength with time."

Leonardo frowned. "Wait, you mean the healing factor? Mike, I thought you'd said it would take months--"

"So I lied. Sue me." Michaelangelo sat up and stared at the floor.

"Why?" Donatello asked.

The question stung him. He looked up, met his brother's somber eyes.

"I mean, you've been psychic for a year. Four months've passed since you woke up from the coma. You don't think we know what's been going on?" There was no malice, just concern. Mike swallowed hard.

"I just...it's hard, y'know? Telepathy, precognition, healing, telekinesis...I mean, I know the M'Kari meant well, but--when do I get time to be _me?_ I dream things that come true, I know what people feel and think, and somehow that makes me feel...like I have to do something. Like if I don't save the world it's all on my head. It's not like I _want_ to advertise myself. When do I get time to do what _I_ want to do?" He dropped his head in his uninjured hand. A tension headache was beginning to grip his temples like a vise.

"I didn't realize it was that bad," Leonardo said softly, and he looked up.Carefully, Leo sat down and touched his wrist. "You're still upset about the battle with the Shadowlord, aren't you?"

Michaelangelo closed his eyes. "I died, Leo. Twice. Twice in one goddamn week. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Does it mean anything to you?" Leo asked, his voice so soft and pained that Mike could suddenly _feel_ what it meant to him, to them all.

Slowly, Mike stood. The pressure had moved to the back of his head now, gripping all around. He felt dizzy. _Two hundred and ten people died because I couldn't do anything to save them..._

"I'm going to go to bed. I got a headache."

Frowning, Raphael stood as well. "Wait, what about--I mean, you still haven't told us what happened. Was it a premoniton?"

Michaelangelo looked at him soberly. "They all died." And then he spun on his heel, seeing blackness in his head, and shut the bedroom door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

7:45 pm. His head still hurt. He woke up and slid out of bed, going into the kitchen to make tea. The light was on in Donatello's workshop. The familiar clack of keys was a reassuring rhythm.

"Feeling better?" a voice asked behind him, and he jumped.

"Fine, Raph. I think I'm gonna go take a walk. Head still hurts."

"Now? It's almost eight o'clock..."

Mike looked at him. "Your point being?"

Raph just held up his hands and then opened the refrigerator. Mike finished the tea and drank, not caring as it seared his insides like fire. That had already happened. Then, before anyone could say another word, he plunked the mug on the counter and hurried out the door.

* * *

 _Yeah, right. Like I'm really gonna walk all the way there with a headache like this._ Straddling the motorcycle, he moved it ahead and away from the other three, jammed on the helmet, and rode out, toward the tunnels, toward land. Once into fresh air, he drew in a deep breath. Not like anyone would notice. Not like anyone would care. He turned to the back roads anyway. Just in case.

The club was one of those costume gigs, where Halloween was all year and no one asked questions. He hoped, at least. He'd gone there once before, to get out of another Leo-Raph dispute. Couldn't even remember what it had been about. Did it matter?

Stopping just in front, he took off the helmet and stared at the doorway, the bouncer; listened to the pulse of music within. Not that it would calm his head any; just get him away from the death. He hoped. A place where no one cared what you looked like on the surface--as long as you were inside you didn't have to show face. He liked it. In a way, it was like seeing something through ESP. The outside was only a cover, an illusion. If you looked inside long enough, you'd see the reality. The core. Mike parked the bike, closed his eyes, and let the throb of mental babble reach for him.

_Seems kinda stupid if you think about it, but I never--_

_Don't know why I let him kiss me, it just seemed--_

_...happened to walk into the store, and there was the guy with the gun, and then Greg's brains were all over the fucking floor..._

_Looks pretty, maybe I should ask her to dance; couldn't hurt, the worst she could do is throw soda in my face..._

The tide of voices rose and fell, like a distant swelling. He'd gotten fairly used to it-- the first time he had walked into a crowd, he had choked and nearly passed out. It was a little like having a prosthetic leg, or something implanted. Something new. Different. Extra. You got used to it, sometimes even forgot it was there; took it for granted. You could spend a year with it and see it as part of yourself, something you couldn't picture doing without. Sometimes you missed the way it used to be.

Mike had lived with ESP for over a year, and had gotten used to the little things: catching a thread of thought here, a strand of emotion there. Closing his eyes and seeing something far away, or even a glimpse of what would happen. The bigger things--like telekinesis, "going in" to a wounded body--that took a little more. It had been instinct; already he'd known how, maybe something left by the aliens to help him cope (and he was certainly glad for that; otherwise he may have been driven to near-insanity). His brothers were over the initial shock, of course. Now they didn't find it so odd to feel him in the back of their minds every now and then; they had always had some sort of telepathic connection. But they couldn't _understand._ Not completely. Hell, he barely understood it himself.

He went in, nodding at the bouncer. Here the swell was stronger. Lights flickered and pulsed, bodies moved in and out. Whispers in the dark. He closed his eyes, breathed in. Raised the barriers. Muted. He walked over to a barstool and sat, resting the arches of his feet against the top rung. Costumes everywhere. Nobody caring. Costumes. Masks. Was that all it was? He pressed a hand to his head, staring into the dark. Lights flashed.

"You seem pensive," a young female voice said beside him, and he turned to see a slender girl hop onto the stool next to his.

"Just thinking." He smiled wanly.

She nodded. "Thinking's good. Sometimes my boyfriend says I do that too much."

"Fly off to never-never land, huh?"

"Exactly. Of course, I occasionally catch him there, too."

"Whoops." Mike drummed his fingers against the table. Her hair was long and straight, and apparently had tried to make the transition from blond to brown in childhood, but was now caught in between. Mousey was the word that came to mind. Her dark eyes watched him with nothing more than social curiosity.

He ordered a glass of water and she followed. He watched her watching him, and then suddenly she broke into an embarrassed giggle and covered her mouth. "Oh--sorry, just looking at the costume. Didn't mean to space out on you."

He grinned back. "Never-never land."

"Yeah. I'm sorry." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Carrie."

He shook it. "Mike."

"Just Mike?" she asked.

"Just Carrie?" he countered.

She smiled. "Fair enough. Carrie White."

He almost choked on the water and grinned. "Don't tell me--your parents are big Stephen King fans."

She cracked up. "My mom, yeah. I guess it was the last name. But my grandmother's name was Caroline. That's my full name."

"Yeah, but still--nobody dumped pig's blood on you at the senior prom, did they?"

Carrie giggled. "Not yet. Prom's a month away."

"What's a month away?" The blond-haired boy who had sneaked behind Carrie slipped his arms around her waist.

"Prom," she replied. She gestured toward Mike. "He likes my name."

"Ah." The boy shook Mike's hand. "Cool costume. I'm Tommy."

Mike's eyeridge shot up. "Lemme guess. Tommy Ross."

"The guy likes his Stephen King," Tommy said, grinning.

"You're kidding."

"Uh uh. Swear. I try to live it down."

Mike leaned back against the bar. "Cool."

Carrie's eyes glittered. "And...what was your name again, Mike?"

He smiled. "Mike Hamato."

"You're Japanese?" asked Tommy.

"My father is, yeah."

Tommy took the seat next to Carrie. "Where'd you get the costume? It's amazing."

Mike smiled again. "If I told you I'd have to kill you."

"Gotcha."

"How come you two aren't dressed up?" he asked.

Carrie shrugged. "Didn't feel like it. Nobody cares anyway."

"I know." Mike sighed, looked down at his glass.

Carrie frowned at him. "What?"

He shook his head. "Life. Sucks sometimes."

"No kidding," she said. "What happened with you?"

Michelangelo just shook his head again. "You know that plane that crashed today?"

She closed her eyes. Nodded. Tommy's face grew somber. "Damn bastards," he whispered. "Why do people do shit like that?"

Shrugging again, Mike gulped down the last of his water, sloshing the ice around. "I saw it."

"What?" Carrie looked up.

"Saw it. In a dream. I was there." He didn't know why he was telling them this; something in him was just saying that they were all right. She must have sensed it too.

"My god," Carrie whispered, eyes wide.

"Premonition?" Tommy asked. "You have ESP?"

Mike nodded. "Like I said, life sucks sometimes."

"Yeah..." Carrie frowned sympathetically. "I'm so sorry. Must have been awful."

Mike shrugged. "I live with it."

She shuddered. "I couldn't. How much do you have?"

He just looked at her. "You don't wanna know."

Tommy looked down at the table, then back up. "You in school?"

"My brothers and I are home-schooled," he replied. "We're in martial arts training."

A grin crossed Carrie's face. "I can tell."

Tommy elbowed her lightly. She butted his shoulder, laughing. Mike smiled.

A buzzing had begun in his head, a tiny flurry of whispers. He looked at Carrie. The whispers grew. _Something about her..._

He reached out and lightly probed her. She jumped a little.

 _Holy--_ He blinked. She had it. Just like the King character. He doubted she even knew. But he could tell. The whispers. He touched the back of her mind, the neural tangle, felt a budding spark not present in most minds he'd encountered. _Spark...that's where it is. She's telekinetic and that's where it comes from._

He looped back and away, focused in on himself. Reached back, way back. Felt the spark, much bigger and brighter and closer to the surface. Spark.

Carrie was looking at him again, at his eyes. "Never-never land?" she asked.

He refocused and smiled back at her. "Lost boys are swingin' through the trees."

The lights dimmed. Tommy placed his hand over Carrie's. "Dance?"

She nodded and they got up. "Wanna join us?" Carrie asked.

He shook his head. "Maybe later."

Michelangelo watched them weave into the crowd. "In Your Eyes" was playing in the background. Peter Gabriel. He closed his eyes and reached back to touch the spark and let the rhythm of music carry him.

* * *

### 2\. Wind

"What's the old saying?" Raph asked, popping open a can.

Leo traced the ring that his own can had left on the table. "The more things change, the more they stay the same?"

"Yeah, that. Does he usually stay out this late?"

Leo shrugged. "What can I say? He's always been the party animal of the family. He deserves a little fun."

Raphael belched softly; the bubbles fizzed and the sharp taste of beer spread across his throat. "It's when Mikey _stops_ having fun is when I start to worry."

"I don't think that'll happen," said Leo.

* * *

Mikey glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:45. His head was starting to pound. He ignored it; focused. In the distance he could see them pressed together, embraced. Swaying. Lights flashed.

_See the stone set in your eyes, see the thorn twist in your side. I'll wait for you. Sleight of hand and twist of fate, on a bed of nails she makes me wait. And I'll wait, without you. With or without you...with or without you..."_

It hurt now, really hurt. Like the hooves of a great black horse thudding over the soft tissue of brain, into the electric whiteness of mind. Swelling. Spark. The tide of voices crested, ebbed. He watched the two of them dance.

_"Through the storm we reach the shore, you give it all but I want more. And I'm waiting for you..."_

Stormclouds in his head. He rested his forehead against the table. Bartender was busy at the other end. No one was noticing. Pinpricks. Hurt. Jesus, it was starting to pound.

_"With or without you, with or without you ah ha...I can't live, with or without you..."_

Splinter had once said it was like opening the door on a cocktail party and instantly being aware of a droning hum, voices blending together, conversation. If you concentrated hard enough you could pick out one or two voices and block out most of the rest. Narrow it down. If you shut the door the sound would still come through, muted, background chatter--but if you walked away it would fade out completely. Shut the door and walk away. Shut the door.

_"And you give yourself away...and you give yourself away...and you give, and you give, and you give yourself away..."_

The problem was, he couldn't shut it. Not with the girl. He had to find her. Had to know. Damn it, the headache was blinding. _Too many distractions, too many people's thoughts...too many...too much..._

Shut the door.

_I can't._

Shut the door.

_Have to know..._

She was laughing. He had picked her up and was twirling around, around...

_"My hands are tied. My body bruised, she got me with nothing to win and, nothing left to lose..."_

Shut the fucking door _now!_

He turned inside his head, fairly slammed it. Pain. Like slamming a door on himself.

Mute button. Distant tide. Horse in the stable, beating at the doors. _You stay. Too much trouble._

At least it didn't hurt much anymore.

_"And you give yourself away...and you give yourself away, and you give, and you give, and you give yourself away"_

Tommy laughing at a joke, Carrie with a sly grin, pressing close, slow dance. Couples around them, moving slowly. Soft. The music soothing. He looked at his glass, thought about that other Stephen King book, the one with the little girl. Focused on the ice.

_"With or without you...with or without you ohh, I can't live, with or without you..."_

The ice was melting. Not too warm. Cool. Cold. Ah. Melted. He took it, sipped it down softly.

_"With or without you...with or without you ah ha; I can't live, with or without you..."_

But could he, in fact, live with it? It was actually getting harder to see living without it now. ESP. He smiled wearily. Not so uncommon now, was it? Telepathy. Telekinesis. Precognition. Telempathy. So many obscure names, all boiling down to one thing. Sense beyond sense. Okay, then. He could live with that.

But killing someone, even a villain, even in self-defense...

Something screamed, like something out of a dream, and he shook. _Ghosts. My past. The scars are still there, aren't they?_

Leonardo had told him, time and again, that he had never actually killed Tetsu Nashima, that he had just...struck out. Self-defense. Delivered a blow. But he had never told them, had never admitted...  
 _I felt it. For a minute I touched his heart, held it in my hand and I was squeezing. I co_ _uld have crushed him from the inside._

And why hadn't he? Because it had all been so quick? Because, through the shock and pain of death that was already there, he had just...slipped? Backslid? Had he _meant_ to do it? Had he _wanted_ to?

Something said yes. Loudly. He told it to shut the hell up.

But that was the problem. He _liked_ it. He had actually felt a painful pleasure from it. Something about holding your enemy's life in your hands...

Carrie and Tommy were making their way back to the bar, crackling under the lights. Laughing. He put on a tired smile and turned to them.


	3. Chapter 3

The rat placed furred hands against the painting, touching it. Landscape. Waterfall. One of the best works Michaelangelo had produced in the past year. Just for him. He had even made a dedication on the back.  
 _For Splinter...my teacher, my father...thank you._

  
He closed his eyes. "Ah, my son," he murmured to the painting. "What is happening to you?"

* * *

U2 had been replaced by Phil Collins. "In The Air Tonight." Carrie had been laughing two seconds ago; she wasn't laughing when she looked at his face. "Are you okay?"

Mike looked up, smiled shakily. "Headache. I think it's getting a little stuffy in here."

Tommy jerked his head toward the door. "Do you want to go outside for a few minutes?"

"Sure..." Unsteadily, he slid off the seat. Carrie's hand brushed his arm. "Do you really have ESP?" she asked.

He smiled at her. "Pick a number between one and fifty."

She bit her lip, nodded.

"Thirty-three point nine."

Her eyes widened. Mike grinned. The black horse was starting to break the lock down. He winced a little and turned away. "Let's go."

Her fingers on his wrist. "It's not just the air, is it?" He didn't look at her.

"You're picking up people's thoughts."

He nodded. Couldn't they just _go?_

"Can you control it?"

He shrugged. "Mostly, yeah."

Silence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her bite her lip. Waited. She took a deep breath.

"Could you...could you teach me?"

Mike looked at her. Tommy looked at Mike. The circle began to move.

* * *

A gust of cool wind hit his face. Don shielded his eyes and peered out at the night, the stars. Took out the binoculars and looked through them. Crouched on the little hilltop, he could see everything. Mars. Venus. The dippers. Orion was out tonight. He looked higher, harder. _Are they out there? Could we see the planet from here? Can they hear us?_  
A question he figured only Mike could answer. Although Don wasn't sure even Mike knew. _Just because they saved his life twice..._

He closed his eyes and saw blood. Michaelangelo's blood, splashed on the kitchen wall, pooling onto the floor. Saw him lying on the ground after a near-fatal fall, fighting just to breathe, to stay alive. Saw a cold body on the med table; flatline, defibrillation. Saw the body jerk as the heart began to beat again--surge, flow. Saw, again, a lifeless form, beaten and bloodied, in Raphael's arms, Raph screaming in pain and anger. People surrounding them--aliens, M'Kari--reaching in, a driving force, willing Mike to live. _And not even a real goodbye. They just...left. Like the wind. Gone. And what did they leave behind? Sure, we have Mike back, but not all of him. Not the part that died that last time. It's lost in the wind. All lost. Shit._

He stood up, stretching his cramped legs. It was a long walk down the hill.

* * *

Voices in the wind. Whispers in the dark. "Any better?" Tommy asked.

Mike nodded. "Yeah. You guys don't have to stay, you can go back if you want..."

Carrie came up beside him, Tommy's arm wrapped around her waist. "I dunno, it's pretty out here. All the stars..."

"Mm." He rubbed his solar plexus uneasily. Not like cramping, more like...pressure. Slight pressure. In the back of his mind, someone yelled. _Damn precog...go away!_

And it went, but not before leaving a mark. As usual. He looked around for something distracting. A rabbit was scuttling across the grass, toward some bushes.

"Oh, look!" Carrie exclaimed. "That's so cute."

Mike smiled. Knelt and held out a hand, palm up. _C'mere, little guy. Nobody's gonna hurt ya, just wanna look at you._ He felt himself soften instantly. The rabbit paused, nose twitching, then slowly hopped toward him; hesitated--then was sniffing his hand, coming closer...black eyes into blue, neither knowing which was which...

He gathered it up and stood, the rabbit's body warm and shivering in his arms. _Trust. All based on trust, little guy. You trust me?_

Carrie drew in a pleased gasp. "How'd you do that?" She reached out to stroke lightly between the ears; the rabbit twitched but didn't move.

Mike smiled. "Trust."

* * *

A pack of cards lay on the table by the far wall. Splinter picked it up, took them out of the box. The box was from an old poker deck, but the cards--

No. He shook his head, put the deck down. Changed his mind. Cocked his head and turned them over, looked at them. The first one was a star. That was all it was. The thick black outline of a star. He shuffled it to the back. Circle. Then a square. Wavy lines. Black outlines. He closed his eyes, remembered. It had been a year ago. A month after the strangeness began happening. But would he have thought it so strange if he'd known?

He stood there, seeing the blackness behind his eyelids, and heard his youngest son's voice, younger, innocent. Went back. Reached back to touch that mind. His hand opened. The cards slowly fluttered to the floor with a paper rush.

* * *

_The past_

"It's been a long time since I've done anything like this," he murmurs, sitting.

"You mean you've done this before?" Mikey asks, looking up. "You've taught--"

"In a way," Splinter says. "Part of the ninja skill, ninpo, is learning how to use the hidden sixth sense. But sometimes...there were students who had more than just a sense."

His son's voice is barely a whisper. "Like me."

Splinter nods. "Like you."

He spreads the cards out, five of them, so the faces show. "These are called Zenner cards," he says. "More commonly known as ESP cards."

"I--think I've seen those," Mike says. "In those old sci-fi movies from the seventies...I'm supposed to guess what they are without looking, right?"

Splinter nods again, gathers them up, puts them in the pile. Shuffles. Breathing slowly, he looks at Michaelangelo's face--eager, nervous, a little frightened. He doesn't blame him. He holds up the first card, the face meeting his own.  
Mike bites his lip, jaw clenching. Splinter can almost see what's going on behind his eyes.

"Relax," he says. "It won't come unless you release it. Don't try. Just think."

Closing his eyes, Mike lets out several slow breaths. Nothing seems to happen. And then, suddenly, Splinter can feel--can actually _feel_ \--something reach out, pass over the back of the card and through. Eyes seem to stare at him from nowhere. Something grips hold of his sight and holds for the briefest of seconds.

Then it is gone.

He shakes himself, looks at Mike. The turtle looks back, looks at the card.

"Square," he says, with such finality that Splinter would have believed it even if he hadn't been looking himself. Indeed, a square. Suddenly he realizes that the game is afoot before it has even begun.

_My god..._

"Perhaps this may be too simple for you," he says softly. "Perhaps a deck of playing cards would suffice."

Michelangelo blinks at him, his face so oddly neutral that Splinter actually feels a shiver run down his spine. _It is not supposed to happen this quickly...he needs time...he doesn't even know what is happening..._

"Okay," Mike says, in that same carefully controlled voice. Splinter suddenly sees a flash of a plane with red-tipped wings, spiraling downward with smoke curling from the engines.

So that's it. He _is_ afraid. Afraid of knowing the future, of _seeing_ the future. Afraid of touching things that no one should be able to touch. Thought, form, emotion, memory. It lies in wait like a beast, waiting to swallow him, waiting.  
 _He's a child. No more than a child. He cannot begin to--_

And, looking up into those innocent baby blue eyes, he realizes that Michaelangelo has heard the thought as clearly as though it had been spoken. It has begun.

* * *

Pulling the grayness of memory around him like a cloak, Splinter opened his eyes and knelt to pick up the fallen cards.  
Children. Weren't they all just children. Seventeen, barely eighteen. Caught between worlds. Boys at heart, animals in body. He stood looking at the cards, the harsh black shapes, and somehow, suddenly, feared for his children.

* * *

Mike bit his lip, the blackness of uncertainty and unknowing creeping up, and put strong hands on either side of her head. "If it hurts, let me know..."

"Okay." She sounded scared. _Don't blame ya, babe..._

The blond boy stood a few feet away, looking on with a strange expression--solemn, yet laced with...he couldn't tell. He felt nervous, of course; it was like intimacy in a way, like groping with the lights on and having the parents walk in. Her boyfriend was standing right there, watching...

"Tommy?" she asked, her voice thin.

"I'm here," the boy said. "You'll be okay." _I think..._

Mike didn't answer. He caught her gaze and held it. "You're gonna want to resist me, but don't. When I tell you to, that's when you push back. Okay?"

She nodded, swallowing.

Splinter's voice in his head. _It will be an automatic response, but you must let me in. Only when I tell you, you must resist. Hyperfocus your thoughts now._

Hands against the head. Nerve endings in the fingers, nerve endings in the temples-- probably didn't mean shit, but he just felt better when he could touch them.

He closed his eyes, not that he needed to, and sent the first tendril of thought in, reaching back to touch that spark. He felt walls rush up to meet him, white noise; pushed deeper. Found the spark, embraced it, coaxed it. Felt her tense. Something flickered, flared.

He pulled back a little, satisfied. _Carrie, can you hear me?_

 _Yeah..._ She was trembling.

_Push me. Got that? Push back._

She pushed at him, hesitant; he drove deeper and felt her tense, like a spar. Push. Resist. Shove. Her guard weakened; she couldn't do it. He took a deep breath, considered the other thing. Splinter had tried it and had been knocked across the room. He bit his lip.

 _Carrie?_ he called. _Don't resist me this time. I'm gonna try something else._

Felt her weakly acknowledge. Drove back to the core, the spark, felt a sort of pressure way back. Like a barrier, or a nub. He pushed a little harder...

And was promptly shoved back, out of mind, out of depth. His eyes flew open and he jerked, releasing her. Her eyes widened.

"Mike? Are you okay? I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"I know. It's okay, I'm fine." He rubbed his head. "Just...testing a theory."

Tommy hurried over and took Carrie in his arms. "What happened?"

"She didn't push me back," Mike said. "At least not--not consciously. There's this tiny part way back in her mind, like an automatic reflex. Pushed me away. But I'm not sure if..."

He paused, approached the boy. "Tom, you mind if I try it on you? Just need to see something..."

Tommy blinked. "Uh, sure."

Mike touched his head, went in. Back into the deep end. There was no spark, only a tiny flicker, totally normal. Pushed harder, reached the space where the pressure should have been...

Nothing. Just emptiness. He opened his eyes and stepped back.

"What was that?" Tommy asked. "Did you do anything?"

Mike smiled and shook his head. Tommy probably hadn't even known we was there.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll explain later."

He glanced up at the moon, toward the brush where they'd released the rabbit. "I'd better go. It's getting late."

Carrie nodded. "Will we see you again?"

He looked at her. "Sure."

She put her hand on his arm, looking at his eyes. Still thought she was looking at an older teen in a turtle costume. Wouldn't be long, now. Not with her.

"Teach me?" she whispered.

He touched the side of her face briefly, like a feather. "I promise."

* * *

"Haven't you finished those damn preparations yet?"

"Almost. Give me time."

The cell phone shrilled.

"I see him," the voice said. "Outside the nightclub, talking with the girl."

"White?"

"Yeah."

"Ross is there, too?"

"When is he not?"

Pause. "Don't do anything. Are they moving?"

"He's leaving."

"Which one, the boy?"

"The turtle."

"Can you follow him?"

"Not like this; he can probably sniff me out..."

"He's not a goddamn bloodhound--"

"In a sense, he is. Should I follow or not?"

Pause. "No. Wherever he goes, it's probably not best to tag along."

Sigh. "Yeah, okay. But what about the kids? Shouldn't I at least grab the girl?"

Twisted smile. "And spoil the fun? Let's see what happens first. If he really tries to 'draw' her out. I mean, that's the theory we're trying to prove, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah..."

"Just leave it alone for now." His voice was like a purr. "I think I'd rather have both of them at the same time. Besides, they don't have a clue what he is yet."

"Boss?" A tap on his shoulder.

He turned. "What?"

"Everything's ready."

Hatcher smiled. "That's good," he said. He hung up the phone.

* * *

### 3\. Water

Mikey opened the lair door, stepped in, and heard the sound of the TV from far off. Walked into the living room and looked down at Raphael, who was reclining with the remote in one hand and a can of soda in the other. Some old horror flick on the screen.

"Where were you?" Raph twisted his head around.

"Out."

He raised an eyeridge. "Obviously."

Mike sat down next to him. "I went to that costume nightclub downtown."

"Ah, that one. How was it?"

Shrug. "Kinda stuffy. Crowded."

Raph looked at him. "Head hurt?"

Mike glanced up. "Yeah..."

Drinking half the can in one gulp, Raphael tossed him a knowing glance. "Figures. You and crowds don't exactly mix anymore."

"I _try,_ Raph--"

"I know you do. I just asked if your head hurt."

Rubbing his head, Mike leaned an elbow on the couch arm. "I met a couple of kids there, our age. Carrie and Tommy. Cute couple."

"And?"

Mike shrugged.

"That's nice." Raph turned back to the movie.

There was silence for a few minutes. Then Michaelangelo looked down at his hands. "Raph, she's got TK."

Raphael turned his head. "What, the girl?"

He nodded.

"You sure?"

"I checked. She asked me to."

Passing a hand over his eyes, Raph blew out his breath. "Natural?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Telekinesis."

"Yeah."

"Damn."

Mike realized his hands were sweating, and rubbed them uneasily. "She wants me to help her..."

Raph's hand on his arm. "Mike, you look exhausted."

"I'm not...I'm fine. I just...Raph, if I can cruise into an ordinary Manhattan nightclub and meet even _one_ person with ESP...how many people like her do you think are out there? Everybody's always brushing this shit off as a hoax, hallucinations...but--"

"Bro," and here Raphael turned to face him fully, "there're over a billion people on the planet. Humans, I mean. Who gives a crap about those New Age flakes who claim to be psychic--I mean, if it _exists,_ then somebody genuine's gotta have it. You do. This girl does, from what you're saying. And I'm sure there are maybe a thousand other people who have it. But who'd want to advertise and risk getting slaughtered by skeptics, anyway?"

Mike closed his eyes. "Well, yeah, but..."

"Shit, Mikey." Raph crushed the soda can in his hand. "Who'd believe in giant mutant turtles, anyway?"

Michaelangelo looked at him.

"See?" Raph said.

Mike sighed. "Then why do I still feel like a freak among freaks?"

Raphael touched his arm again. "Try to get some sleep, okay?"

Mike just nodded.

* * *

_Cage. Iron bars. Voices. Pinpricks. Cattle prod? Can't tell. Damn it, too dark...he touches cold iron, and then a lock twists, door swings open and a hand grabs his arm. Voices. He's on a table. Cold metal. Restraints. Needle syringe pricks his arm, and then he's on fire. He starts to scream and can't stop screaming, and far away someone else screams with him..._

He jerked up in bed, heart pounding. The others were still sound asleep. He hadn't screamed. He lay back down and thought about iron bars and voices in the dark, and realized that his hands had begun to shake.


	4. Chapter 4

Leo woke up early and was pouring milk on his cereal when Mike walked in and sat down, putting his head in his hands.

Leo put the milk down. "Bad night?"

"Can't remember."

Picking up his spoon, Leo pushed a glass of orange juice toward his brother. "Here, it's cold. It'll wake you up."

Mike took it and drank, wincing. "Yow, that's cold."

"Told you."

He took another sip, relished the tart citrus, and got up to get his own bowl.

"Raph tells me you met a girl with telekinesis last night," Leonardo said.

Michaelangelo slid back into her seat. "Her name's Carrie White."

Leo blinked.

Mike grinned. "Yeah, I know. Guess what her boyfriend's name is."

"Stephen?"

Mike laughed. "Tommy. As in the Tommy who took Carrie to the prom."

"Nobody was hauling around buckets of blood, were they?"

Mike had just taken a bite, and now he almost choked on it laughing. "I asked that. They said no."

"What makes you think she--"

"I checked."

"Oh."

They ate in silence, and then Donatello joined them, half awake. He rushed to the coffee maker that Leo had prepared, poured a cup, and drank half. Then he sighed happily. "Morning."

Mike glanced up. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty."

"Shaddup."

Michaelangelo grinned.

"By the way," Don said after getting his coffee and breakfast. "I was out by your nightclub last night, Mike. Looked like somebody was lurking around in the bushes. You sure it's safe to go down there?"

Mike's hand froze. "Ah..."

Don looked at him curiously. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, fine." He picked up his bowl and dumped the milk in the sink. "I gotta go, I told Carrie I'd meet them by the pizza place by April's.

"Which reminds me," Leonardo cut in. "April's invited us over this afternoon, just to hang out. Are you coming?"

"Yeah, I'll be there." Now he was really getting anxious. "I'll see you guys later."

He ran out, grabbing his coat and fedora, trying desperately to outrun the shadow of the nightmare that still clung to him.

* * *

"He was nice, wasn't he?"

"Mm-hmm. Nice enough to help you out."

They stood under a grove of trees in Central Park, his hands on her waist. They kissed for a long time, and when they pulled away the swans were gathering in the pond, wings flapping and splashing in the water. A small box turtle crawled near Carrie's foot.

"Tommy?" she murmured.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"I don't think that's a costume."

* * *

"Yes or no?" Hatcher asked, arms folded.

"For the last time, John, _yes._ Now will you stop bitching about it? We'll get them."

Hatcher shook his head. "Time flows like a river, my friend. You can't always follow it wherever it goes."

"We'll _get_ them--"

"Shh." Hatcher put a hand over the scientist's mouth. "No more talking. Talk again and I'll kill you. Just show me what you have."

His eyes bulging, Dr. Morrison nodded.

* * *

"You mean you think he's--"

"Real? Yes, I do. Just the way his hand felt when I shook it, or maybe it was how you couldn't see one single seam, like it was all smooth and perfect..."

"Carrie..."

She bent and picked up the turtle, whose head and legs immediately disappeared into the shell. "And those were scars, Tommy. Who'd deliberately put gashes in a costume?"

"Carrie, giant talking turtles don't exist."

She turned and looked at him. "Neither does telekinesis. Right?"

Tommy closed his eyes.

* * *

Tongue running over his teeth, Donatello pulled up the search engine. Typed in "parapsychology." Waited. A world opened before him. He scrolled down, clicked, and began to read.

* * *

Mike waited at the curb until he spotted a green Honda pulling up. He drew his trench coat tighter around him. Not like anyone would notice; this was New York. Still... They got out, and Carrie waved to him. He waved back and waited until they joined him.

"Shall we go in?"

Tommy nodded. "Thanks for agreeing to this, Mike."

He smiled at Carrie. "Don't mention it."

Her eyes looked back at him. _Don't worry,_ they said. _We won't tell._

And inwardly, he took a step back.

* * *

_The past_

He wakes up screaming, and then cool hands are quickly touching him, furred fingers on his face. "Hush, Michaelangelo. You are safe. You had a nightmare."

 _And lately that's all I've been having,_ he thinks, and looks up. "Master?"

The rat looks back at him solemnly. "Can you remember it?"

He shakes his head.

Splinter feels his forehead. "You feel all right. But I fear the speed of development may be a bit overwhelming."

His brow furrows. "Huh?"

Splinter perches on the edge of the bed. The other turtles have already gone to breakfast. "It has been three weeks since you and Raphael came upon the hidden cavern. Do you not remember what happened that very day you awoke from the three-day sleep?"

Michaelangelo looks downward. "I remember...hearing Donatello's thoughts. I was thirsty, and I tried to reach for a cup of broth, and it...flew into my hand."

Splinter nods. "Respectively, you demonstrated powers of telepathy and telekinesis. You understand what that means, don't you?"

Mike nods slowly. "Reading people's minds and moving things just by thinking about it. Respectively."

The rat takes his hands. "I believe it is more than that for you, my son. These powers are growing at a fantastic rate. Your nightmares may in fact be a window to the future. You must try to remember."

"The future...?" His eyes widen. "But--I don't want to see the future!"

"You may not have a choice," Splinter says. "I have offered once, but I will offer again. Will you let me teach you?"

"Teach me...?"

"To control these powers. To see what _you_ wish to see. I am afraid for you, Michaelangelo. Your emotional sensitivity already marks you as highly empathic. I would not want to see you torn apart by the very minds that harbor those emotions you feel."

Mike shudders. "I...yeah. I mean, after that dream about the plane crashing, and what I did to the TV--"

"Donatello will fix the television," Splinter says. "And while there is nothing we can do about that one premonition, we can perhaps try to regulate others. Come."

He stands up. Slowly, Mike gets out of bed and goes with him.

* * *

It wasn't crowded in the parlor, but even so they moved to the back and sat down, ordering Cokes. Mike didn't take off his coat.

"When did you find out?"

She bit her lip. "Just before we came here. I kept thinking about it, trying to figure out..."

"How?" Tommy whispered, and he could see the boy's eyes, glinting with surprise and possibly awe.

Mike looked down at the table, sliding the cold can from one hand to the other. "We used to be ordinary turtles, but we fell down a sewer drain and later got covered with...with mutagenic ooze."

"Mutagenic," Carrie murmured. "How did that happen? I mean, how did you get like this?"

Mike looked up into her eyes, somehow, suddenly, trusting them. He didn't know why. So told them, his voice young but somehow old. He was still talking by the time two tall men walked in wearing government issue. They sat at a nearby table, listening, and didn't make a sound.-

* * *

"Load of crap," Donatello muttered under his breath. "Why doesn't anyone have any _real_ evidence to show?"

A shadow standing over him. "That's because getting evidence is too hard," Leonardo said. "As far as we know, Mike's the only one who can actually do what he does."

"Yeah, but...I mean, there has to be _something..._ "

"So, what do you propose? Make flyers? Send out an ad? 'Searching for anyone who can honestly delve into people's heads, blow things up from across the room, seal a wound in twenty minutes'? What are you trying to find, anyway?"

Don shook his head. "Something. Anything. Mike needs this. Look, we've always been outcasts. Hardly anyone knows we exist. That's bad enough, being shunned. But Mikey-- he's got something even more isolating."

Leo folded his arms. "I'd hardly call the ability to read minds isolating."

Turning, Don tapped his fingers against the computer desk. "Well, think about it. You see the look in his eyes. Like he's shutting off a part of himself. You know, blocking it all out. Remember when we ran to that burning building site and the crowd was gathering, and all of a sudden he was on the ground shaking? It's like that."

Leo took another chair and straddled it. "So, what would you do?"

Donatello shrugged. "Well, Splinter and I tested him enough--those powers aren't exactly ebbing. I just want...to help him learn control, that's all. It's a harsh world out there. And the way Mike is already, it'll tear him apart once he gets into it."

Leo looked at him impressively. "Jeez, you really put a lot of thought into this."

Shrugging again, Don turned back and began searching again, clicked on an odd- sounding site--and essentially turned cold as he read the text.

"Oh my god," he whispered.

"What?" Leo stood up, looking over his shoulder. "Donnie? What is it?"

Don shook his head, just pointed.

* * *

"Nothing happened for a couple of weeks after that incident in the infirmary," Mike said quietly. "I mean, I did dream about a plane crash that came true--" His head jerked up.

"Oh," Carrie whispered.

"Like this one?" Tommy asked.

Mike put his head in his hands. "How reminiscent..."

"Go on," Carrie urged.

He closed his eyes, heard the murmurs in his head again. The men in gray issue were sitting there, watching. Listening. He wondered what the hell was so interesting. And then he heard Donatello's voice.

_This is not good. What the hell is this?_

He blinked. A cold wave passed over him. The table under his hands became iron. Voices in the dark. He raised his eyes, glanced at the men across the aisle. They were standing up to leave.

_They want something--what do they want?_

"Mike?" Tommy asked.

He shook his head. "My name is Michelangelo," he said quietly. "Hamato was my sensei's human sensei's name. Hamato Yoshi and his pet rat, Splinter.Technically my last name is Splinterson but sometimes I like to honor the family. My brothers and I are ninja. Mutants. Freaks. Master Splinter's a giant rat. We're all freaks." He was rambling and he couldn't stop and it felt good. He took a breath.

Silence.

"Mike," Carrie said. He didn't look up.

"Michelangelo," she said, firmly. He looked up.

"No, you're not."

Tommy nodded in agreement. Mike looked at them, wide-eyed.

She smiled at him, touching his hand.

* * *

"What is this?" Leonardo asked. "Is this for real?"

Don just nodded. "I think so." He read down the screen, taking deep breaths. "The Shadow Project. That's what they're calling it."

Leo blinked, staring at the familiar Japanese name on the screen. "But--he's dead. The place was blown up."

"Apparently," Donatello said flatly, "someone has resurrected his projects."

"Who?"

"I wish I knew."

"You don't think Michelangelo's in danger, do you?"

Don just looked at him. "I don't know." His hand reached for his shell cell, but didn't take it.

* * *

"Here," Hatcher said, scrolling down. "Ikashi Sumoto. The originator of the Shadow Project."

Morrison looked on. "Good lord, he gave himself a code name?"

"Why not? It's catchy enough."

"Experimenting in cybernetic augmentation...that fell through...he turned to studying the human mind, hidden capacities...thought that cybernetic implants could draw out psychic potential..."

"And it worked." Hatcher made a fist. "It fucking worked, he actually created psychic cyborgs."

Morrison looked at him. "You're not thinking about doing that, are you?"

Hatcher smiled. "Oh, no. Not the cyborg part. That's twisted even for my liking. The psionic experiments, though--I like those. And it says here that Sumoto did not exclude non-human subjects from his...hunt."

He sat back, began to chuckle. "Seems like our green friend is pretty popular, isn't he? What's the word from the field?"

"I'm contacting Agent Jensen now."

"You do that." Hatcher touched the screen, and was still chuckling when Morrison handed the cell phone over to him.

* * *

He looked at the clock. "I have to leave soon. Maybe now's not a good time to try this..."

She stopped him. "Just once. Please? I just--I need to..."

Looking at her, he softened. "Salt shaker?"

Carrie smiled at him, relieved, and he leaned over to pick up the salt.

* * *

"Well?"

"It's recorded. Do you need the tape now?"

"No. Wait till you get back. Are you out of the store?"

Jensen nodded. "Yeah. But White and the other two are still back there."

"Can you see what they're doing?"

"Talking."

"What else?"

He peered, tried to see closer through the binoculars. "Talking. That's it, John. Wait--he's got the salt. Looks like they're having some kind of staring contest with the shaker."

"Idiot." Hatcher pressed two fingers to his brow. "What do you _think_ they're doing?"

"Oh. Right."

"Listen, get back to headquarters, Frank. If you happen to run into the mutant, _don't_ do anything. He's mine."

"Okay...but..."

"And Frank, if you do meet him, don't make eye contact."

The agent blinked. "Huh?"

"He can...influence people. He can 'push' you, for lack of a better word. Plus he's ninja."

Jensen's mouth felt dry. "He should be killed, John. He's dangerous."

An amused chuckle. "Well, so am I. But you don't hear anyone complaining. No. I need him alive--for now."

"What about the kids?"

"Them too. But they're expendable. My hunch is that the freak will form a bond with Caroline. We get her. He comes for her. We get him."

"That works," Jensen said. "We're coming back now."

He hung up, nodded at his partner, and started the car.


	5. Chapter 5

"Not bad," Mike said, picking up the fallen shaker. "Think you can try to lift it?"

Carrie shrugged. "I guess..."

The shaker wobbled again, rose half an inch, slipped. Spilled.

"Shit," she muttered.

"Don't worry about it, that was fine." Mike smiled. "Keep practicing; you'll get it."

"Thank you," she said.

He smiled again, nodded once, and began to slide out of the booth.

"Wait," Carrie said. "I've...we've...been meaning to ask you..."

He returned and looked at them. She glanced over at the blond boy, then back. "How did you get the scars?"

Mike's face shuttered for an instant. "I lost a battle," he said quietly.

"With who?"

He shook his head. "No one you knew."

She sat there looking at him, and he could feel it working in her. Any minute now he'd feel her trying to get inside his head.

"It was a telepath," she said softly. "Someone who hated you. He was a ninja too. Attacked you with a sword...that's how you got the scars."

Mike said nothing. Then he sighed.

Carrie concentrated. "He was strong because...because...implants. Cyb--Oh, god." Her hand went to her mouth, and Tommy touched her arm.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured. There were tears in her eyes.

"Mike?" Tommy looked at him. "How did you lose the battle?"

Michelangelo closed his eyes. "Both struck at the same time. We died."

The boy deliberately misinterpreted. "He was killed?"

"Yeah." Looking up, Mike saw a flicker of deeper understanding in the boy's eyes. He smiled back gratefully. Somehow, the touch between him and Carrie...

Then Mike remembered April. Mumbling a goodbye, he stood up. Tommy lifted a hand as he slid out of the seat. With a wave, he left them, heading up the street toward April's building.

* * *

"We'd better get going," Leo said.

Don nodded, printed out the last of the documents, turned everything off. "Raph! Let's go!"

"I'm coming, keep your goddamn shirt on!"

"If that were possible!"

Leonardo stuck his head in Splinter's room. "Master, we're going."

The rat nodded. "Say hello to April."

"I will," Leo said.

They met up, grabbed their disguises, and hurried out the door.

* * *

Hatcher sat listening to the tape. He rewound it, listened again, paused at places, rewound, listened again. He kept at it until he could mouth the words, memorize phrases. Every inch. Finally, he pressed the stop button. Then he sat back and smiled. It was the slow, white grin of a shark.  
 _Trust me, Michelangelo,_ he thought. _Your life is about to get a lot more interesting._

* * *

### 4\. Earth

* * *

Someone caught his arm.

"Are you all right?" April asked sharply.

He nodded, feeling the world tilt. They hauled him back to the couch, and Leo knelt in front of him. "Put your head down."

"I know." Sucking in a deep breath, he dropped his head between his knees, continuing to breathe deeply.

"You _sure_ you're okay?" Don asked. "Most people don't pass out for no good reason."

"I didn't pass out..." But another wash of dizziness came over him, and he put his hands to his head. When it passed, he stood up slowly. "I'm gonna go splash some water on my face. Be right back."

He pushed away Raph's hand, and made his way toward April's bathroom almost blindly. Once inside he stood at the sink, gripping the cool porcelain and staring at the face in the mirror. "Damn you," he whispered. "Bastard."

The reflection merely threw soundless words back at him. He washed his face, making the water as cold as possible.

He hadn't fainted for no good reason. He knew that. It happened because he'd used too much too fast. Pushed too hard too long. It hadn't caught up with him till now. It always did, though. He hadn't learned how to control that yet. But he would. He groped for a towel and patted his face dry.

Then it hit him again--not the dizziness, but the vision. The foreboding figure standing over him, the looming house, the images of darkness and death. He swayed and gripped the sink like a lifeline until it passed.

Taking a deep breath, Mike closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

Then he turned and faced the full-length mirror on the wall.

In the hard light overhead, the scars stood out like blood. He traced his plastron with his fingers, tracing the scars that ran across his chest and ribs. White. Red. Deep. He looked down at the one on his leg.

"Bastard," he said again, louder.

But he wasn't really blaming anyone, not anymore. The man who had killed him was dead. No amount of cursing could push him any deeper into the void. He was dead.

_Get over it, dude. He's dead. Get over it._

Nice of Tetsu, though, to leave so many scars as a reminder. A way of saying _Don't you dare forget me, you son of a bitch, because there's no way you'll ever be able to forget who you are._

He put a hand up to his left shoulder and his throat tightened. The bullet wounds had left shallow ridges of missing flesh and shell, no matter how well the skin had been stitched. He had never really looked before. It had never really bothered him once it was over. But it bothered him now.

Carrie's voice. _How did you get the scars?_

_I lost a battle. But so did the other guy._

Michaelangelo closed his eyes, not wanting to see. But he knew he would. It was right there, looming over him, a nightmarish ghost waiting beyond the dark of his eyelids. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and it was there.

The reflection was mangled, torn. He could see the long gashes in his chest, his leg--even the two chunks of lead imbedded in the shoulder, tearing open skin and shell. Blood dripped like a nightmare, pooling around his feet. Blood on his left hand, from where he'd grabbed the sword. Blood on his head, from where he'd been struck. Bruises. Cuts. He knew if he looked hard enough he could see where the bones were broken in his ribs and collarbone. But he didn't want to see. This was enough.

He closed his eyes.

_It's enough. It's enough. Go away._

It went away. He felt it go, felt it suck back into him with a cold shiver. There was so much that nobody knew. It was stronger now. By god, it was so much _stronger..._

He turned, to the bathtub, felt it stir inside his head, felt it shiver to the surface and cling, waiting. With a creaking metal protest, the cold faucet turned and water began to flow, hitting the tub like rain. He thought about that book again. The young child, the awesome power. Fiction. It was just fiction.

_Oh really?_

He looked at the rain in the tub and pushed.

Steam had begun to rise. The water itself seemed to sizzle.

_Yeah April, you got plenty of hot water now._

The mirrors started to fog.

_Good. I don't want to look at myself now anyway._

A small blue flash against the bottom of the tub.

_Oh, no you don't--_

He pulled it back. The flow of water stopped. The faucet shut itself off. Mike turned and watched the steam vanish from the mirror.

_Maybe it's best that they don't know..._

After all, what you don't know can't hurt you, right?

Opening the bathroom door, Mike stepped out and locked the burning thing back in its cage.

* * *

He stands in the center of the dojo, hands twitching at his sides. Splinter has set up vases of glass, pieces of pottery and porcelain, two metal rods, bits of paper and wood in a tray. It looks like an obstacle course. The rat master stands at the other end of the room, looking at him over the tables.

"When you are ready," he says.

Mike blinks several times. "I don't know what to do," he whispers.

"You will," Splinter says quietly. "Whenever you're ready."

He takes a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching. The paper was all right, the glass, the wood...he knows what to do with those. But he's just not sure _what_ to do...

 _Start with the pieces,_ his mind whispers. _That should make it easier._

He looks at a piece of pottery. Looks at it. The thing edges to the surface, the creature that moved like water and struck quickly.

He's lifting the bowl. It moves to the end of the table, totters, and holds in mid-air. He's unaware that he has almost stopped breathing with the effort.

He feels the thing inside pull back and gather, holds it steady. Pulls back. Pulls back.

Releases.

The power's out like a shot, and the clay bowl explodes. He flinches.

_Okay, so maybe that was a little too much. Go slower next time._

He looks at another bowl, more like a vase. Why not be creative with this one? He brings his hands up and clenches them together. Shiver. The vase shivers.

Vibration. Like the plucking of a bass guitar string. Shiver. Hold. Hold.

He pulls his hands away, and the vase cracks, half of it splitting and falling away. Brings his hands together with a clap, and the rest of it falls to pieces.

He does that with the rest of the figures, some with his hands, some without. It sounds like a shooting gallery in a pottery class. Splinter comes forward and stands near him, watching.

Mike's breathing hard, almost panting. Sweat is forming in tiny droplets on his skin. He feels his body temperature rise, and wonders why it had dropped in the first place. But his heart is pounding like a drum, and his lungs are racing for air that had seemed to stop passing in and out. He feels like a marathon runner. His stomach growls.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. _So what just happened?_

He looks at Splinter, who suddenly has a glass of water in one hand and a plate of bread in the other. Then Mike notices the far table with the food on it. He almost giggles. Bread and water--it seems strange. But Splinter isn't laughing.

"Here," he says, handing it over. "You're probably wondering why you feel tired."

Mike nods.

"When a runner completes a race, his body goes through several necessary alterations to compensate for the energy burn. Perspiration and respiration increase, as does heart rate. He must then consume a great deal of water, along with enough carbohydrates to replenish his body."

Mike listens carefully, going through the food as though he were starving. He doesn't even notice.

"It is similar to this, I suppose," Splinter goes on. "Your body is burning energy that is coming from nowhere and is apparently going nowhere. But you burn a great deal in a short time, and your body assumes it has been put through great physical labor." He cocks his head. "Does that make sense, my son?"

Mike nods, now rooting through the pasta and the fruit. He's never felt so hungry. And yet he doesn't feel full, not even after he's eaten as much as he could. He doesn't feel the food weighing him down inside. He just feels like running again and again, for miles and miles. But he also doesn't feel hungry anymore. It's a very strange feeling.

When Splinter sees he is through, he leads him back to the middle of the room and shows him the paper and metal and woodchips in the metal tray.

"I have been researching this," he explains. "Donatello has been gathering information for me. From what I have read, it seems that along with telekinesis, another power has been known to occur in many cases--rare, but dangerous."  
Mike looks at him now, frowning. "Dangerous?"

Splinter nods solemnly. "It is called 'pyrokinesis'. Firestarting."

And then he doesn't need to explain any more. Mike's eyes widen; he nods slowly, suddenly scared. He knows it's inside him. He knows what he could be capable of. And now he knows why Splinter has the glass, those woodchips and torn-up newspapers in the metal tray. And then he sees the two metal rods.

Splinter has stepped back now, his eyes solemn. Slowly, Mike walks forward and places two of the glass pieces next to each other so that they touch. Steps back a little.

This time, it's more of a push than a flex.

_He knows what I can do...is this why he's making me do this?_

Splinter gives no reply. Mike wants to look away, walk away, but he knows he can't. He looks at one of the rods.

Flex.

The metal hovers above the table, and he holds it, shaking a little.

Push.

It begins to bend, continues to bend until it's a ring. He pushes again, harder. The ends melt together, welded. It all happens so quickly. He's trying to not show he's scared. The metal ring clatters to the table. The other one is bending now; not just bending but twisting, writhing, and he twists it so that it it's a U-shape and welds it together. By now there are tears running down his cheeks.

_Don't stop now, it's getting good..._

Silently, he turns to the tray and pushes out. The flames start immediately.

And then he can't watch anymore; drops to his knees and tries to hold back the tears, but it comes out in a flood. He's always been the emotional one, but this is beyond emotion. This is fear.

The sound of water pouring. He looks up. Splinter is pouring the water pitcher over the tray. Steam hisses and rises. Slowly, he stands up. Splinter sets the pitcher down and walks up to him, putting his hands on Mike's shoulders.

"Now you understand," he says quietly.


	6. Chapter 6

Two graves in the cemetery.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited much lately," she said. "I've been busy. You know, school and all. But I wanted you to know you were right."

Kneeling in front of them, she smiled, her throat closing. "Daddy, you were right. Those experiments they did on you guys worked. I mean, they _worked._ It's for real now, Daddy. I'm a scientific experiment. I just wish I could have seen it sooner. Maybe I could have stopped them from--"

Choking, she reached out and touched the name carved into one of the markers. "I miss you guys, Mom. And now I feel even more guilty. But I'm learning now. I made a new friend. He's like me. He's teaching me how to use it. Then maybe I can do what Dad wanted to do, and take care of it. Shut them down. Tommy says it's nobody's fault, but it has to be _someone's_ \--"

A hand touched her shoulder. "Revenge is a dish best eaten cold," Tommy said quietly.

She blinked. "That's a new one."

"Old Spanish proverb."

"Oh. And it's not revenge."

"Then what is it?"

She couldn't answer.

He gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. "They loved you, Carrie. They'll always be in here." He touched her just above the breast. "Dammit, _I_ love you."

A smile lit her eyes. "That's the first time you said that."

"I love you," he repeated. "Say it back."

She lowered her eyes. "I love you too."

"Look at me, Carrie."

She looked into his eyes. "I love you."

"Then leave it alone."

Swallowing, she leaned against his chest. "I can't, Tommy. You know that."

And deep down, he did. Sighing, he crouched at the graves, picked up a handful of earth, and sprinkled it over the grass.

* * *

He walked back in and sat down. They looked at him curiously but didn't say anything. April handed him a glass of ginger ale. "Sounded like you were taking a shower."

  
He shrugged. "Something like that."

"You didn't use up the hot water, did you?"

Mike almost grinned at that. "Nope. Don't worry about it." Leaning back, he took a sip. "So, what's on the tube?"

"Nature program," Don replied.

"'Bout what?"

"Earthquakes, volcanoes, that kinda thing."

"Uh huh." He put the drink down on the coffee table and suddenly thought about earthquakes. Ground cracking open, earth flying up, the world swallowing itself like a Midgard serpent. He thought about the planet going to pieces.

_I wonder if--someday--I could blow it up. Just like that. No need for nuclear weapons, I got one in my head. I wonder if I could crack the earth in two._

He shook his head. God, what a horrible thought! That would never happen. Could never happen. Mentally, he slapped himself. Just because there was a lot of destruction in his head didn't mean he had to _use_ it.

Of course not.

He took another sip of ginger ale. On the screen, the earth was splitting apart and swallowing entire houses.

 _I could probably fix that up,_ he thought. _Close up the earth and hold it together. Someday. I bet I could do a lot to help people. One day. I bet I could help clean up nature, make it the way it used to be. In time._

Mike felt a little better.

* * *

Jensen had never really considered what kind of man John Hatcher was. At least, not until he appeared in the doorway of Hatcher's office with the latest printout.

He didn't say anything for a minute; his throat almost constricted. He felt as if saying something would somehow provoke some crouched beast hiding somewhere, waiting to rip his throat out.

Hatcher stood at the window, hands behind his back.

Perfectly still.

He was a tall man, tall enough to tower over most. He simply stood there. Eyes in the back of his head.

"Hello, Frank," he said. "Come on in."

The agent came to him. "Here it is."

"Thanks. You can go now."

Jensen almost breathed a sigh of relief.

"Wait," Hatcher said.

The man stopped, bit his lip. The beast in the corner gleamed yellow eyes at him.

Hatcher turned to face him. "The girl. How soon can you get her?"

"Not long," Jensen said. "Couple of days or so."

Nodding slowly, Hatcher looked down at the papers. "That's what I figured."

Jensen was practically hopping on one foot to get out of there, but the beast in the corner was staring at him with sleepy, watchful eyes.

"Did you need anything else, John?"

"No," he said quietly. "Thank you, Frank."

"Thank _you._ " Jensen turned and managed to walk out still holding his composure together. Hatcher watched him go, then smiled. In the corner, the beast rose, stretched, and grinned with him.

Going over to his desk, Hatcher picked up a small pile of photographs. He shuffled through them until he found a close-up, could see the posture and the stance, the way the muscles tensed, ready for anything. It had been a windy day, so the tails of the orange bandanna were caught flying. The head was turned slightly, and Hatcher could see two deep marks on the left shoulder--what looked like the remnant scars of bullet wounds.

 _How interesting,_ he thought. He sat down at the desk, picked up the printouts, and began to read.

* * *

"We go out into the world and take our chances," he sang softly along with Rush. "Fate is just the weight of circumstances. That's the way that lady luck dances. Roll the bones..."

When they had come back from April's, he had actually been skipping, moving to an unheard beat in his head, smiling. Even Leo and been grinning at what seemed like old antics, the way it used to be.

_Why are we here? Because we're here, roll the bones. Why does it happen? Because it happens, roll the bones. Roll the bones..._

He jumped onto his bed and laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Who gave a crap if there weren't any "real" psychics in the world? Skeptics weren't going to turn anyway. He might as well just accept it. No one would truly accept mutant turtles, anyway. Not the whole world.

 _Fuck you,_ his mind whispered. _You are real. So is she. So are a bunch of people._

He sat up. A hardcover book was lying on Donatello's bed across the room. He held out his hands and the book obediently flew toward them. Something about ESP. Donnie reading up on ESP. How interesting. He grinned.

He wasn't grinning three seconds later when the room disappeared and all he could see was blackness and the cold glint of iron bars.

* * *

Filling one glass with water, he sets the two of them on the table and takes a seat. Folds his hands in front and looks at them. Just looks.

The power stirs awake, stretching, and obediently makes its way to the surface. It wants to get out, needs to get out; he just hasn't had the time--or the confidence--to let it. Even with a harness.

The filled glass lifts an inch, shivers, and tips so that the rim touches the rim of the empty glass. The water glides. Half and half. He sets them back down.

And then suddenly the other thing is awake, wide awake, trotting to the surface and racing wildly around in its cage. One big prison. One big lighter. His head starts to hurt.

 _Damn you,_ he thinks. _Get back!_

Of course it won't listen. Now that it's awake, it wants to play.

Okay. Fine.

He gets up and makes cocoa in a ceramic mug. It's not hot. But it will be.

_Just a little. Just let it out a little..._

He sits back down and looks into the mug, concentrating. Opens the door. The power flows easily, steadily, and for an instant--for a terrifying fraction of a second--he starts to lose control and watches as the cocoa boils and scalds, almost growling. The edge of the tablecloth begins to char.

_No! Stay back! Get BACK, damn you!_

He slumps in the chair, shaking a little. Best that the others don't know about it. It's best they don't know...

* * *

Donatello stood on the corner, holding the neck of his trench coat closed, glancing furtively around. No one was looking. He hurried across the street, weaving through the crowds, until finally he came to the massive building just up ahead. The internet didn't have enough information. Maybe the public library would.

He doubted it. But this wasn't just for his brother anymore.

_Chemically induced psi experiments. If that's not grounds for a horror movie, I don't know what is. But if it turns out to be real...say goodbye, world..._

Opening the doors, he made his way inside and upstairs.

* * *

In the distance, something crashed, something began to pound, over and over. Crash. He fled along twisting hallways, into shadows that reached and grasped with cold hands. Alarms blared overhead, voices shouting, and he knew that if he didn't find it in time they were all dead. Doors loomed ahead of him, so many doors in one pulsing hallway; he remembered the forbidden one and threw his weight against it, knowing what was inside and yet desperate to get away...he'd take the risk...if it meant them getting out alive, he'd take the risk...

And far behind, footsteps and alarms and gunshots, and they were coming closer; the door gave away and he tripped across the threshold...blood on the walls and screams in the air, cries of the long dead, and he scrambled for the living room, the oak wood desk, crouching behind it, waiting. He stared at the door, stared, realizing it wasn't locked, he'd forgotten to lock it...turned the lock and secured it just as the pounding began, the gunshots, the danger...and all the while the thing that could destroy them all was pounding in his head, screaming to be released...

The door burst open, and the man with no face was there, with a gun in his hand and a deadly glimmer in the yellow cat eyes...

Mike jerked, heart pounding, as images roared past him into the distance. Now they were coming while he was awake. How convenient. He thought about shadowed figures, eyes gleaming in the dark--and then the shadow exploded.

* * *

"An abandoned mansion," Donnie murmured aloud, staring at the page. "Shit."

If he had been told that a day ago he wouldn't have believed it. But in the face of all that had happened, it only seemed logical, in a twisted sort of way. No government office building. A mansion. Project headquarters was an old mansion in the Catskills. So big it was almost a hotel. Holy shit.

 _And I'll bet it's just full of ghosts, too,_ Don thought grimly, flipping through the book again. _How convenient._

Passing a weary hand over his eyes, he began to read a little more.

* * *

Crouched on the roof of April's building, Raphael watched the city below, the darkness, waiting for a wrong movement, a sudden jerk, a scream in the night. So far, it had been quiet. Enough for him to start thinking. He wasn't sure if that was such a good thing. Sometimes, now, thinking made him remember. And there was one memory in particular he didn't want to relive.

_Felt like my heart had just been ripped out, that's how bad it was...seeing him lying there, this time really dead, broken and dead...an' I thought I was gonna die too, just fall down and give up. My brother...friend...my best friend...he was dead, goddammit, he was dead, and I couldn't do anything to--_

And then the alien minds, surging, thunderstorm, driving him onward and inward, and he had felt it, had _felt_ his little brother's fading soul and stilled heart...

And it had hurt. Even when Mike had started breathing again, it had hurt. It still hurt. Just the knowledge that it had _happened,_ that one of them had really bought the farm-- that the one who really meant anything at all to him had bought it--that had been a knife in his gut. Nobody was immortal. They all bled. They died too. He had never really thought about it before.

_We can die if we're not careful. We can get ourselves killed so easily...and here I am, pulling off all these hair-raising stunts; Mr. Look-Before-I-Leap...and Mikey's the one who gets it. It could have been me. Damn it, it SHOULD have been me! Mikey didn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve it now...I should've been there to save him, I--_

But beating himself up about it wasn't going to change anything. Every time he looked at the scars lining Michaelangelo's skin, guilt was a bitter blade in his chest, but feeling guilty wasn't going to do anything. A killer was dead, a life avenged and restored. And yet, every time he closed his eyes and saw the blood on the kitchen floor, all the blood and the motionless body...

_I should be there for him now. Dammit, Raphael, he's your best friend!_

A cry pierced the darkness and he jerked, eyes scouring the shadows. A struggle down below. He began to smile.

He may be a lousy caregiver, but at least he could protect people. That was all that mattered.

_Like protecting your best friend from his own demons? From your demons?_

He gripped his sai, shoved the tiny voice into the back of his head, and hurried down to do his work.


	7. Chapter 7

Leonardo swung his arms slowly, knees barely bent, sweeping the bird's tail. His breath flowed in and out with the rhythm, and he at last began to feel relaxed. Tai chi was probably the best type of stress reliever there was.  
He went slowly, finishing the moves with a sweep of the arms, crossing them over his chest, flying outward like a crane. Standing there for a minute, getting back into the world, he rolled his shoulders back and forth, then sat down on the bench, flexing. A glint of metal caught his eye, and he saw one of his katana propped against the far wall. Thought about getting up to take it and practice, but his muscles were all too ready to rest after the workout. He stared longingly at the sword, and heard his little brother's voice from three months ago.

* * *

_The past_

"Boy, that looks exhausting," Mike comments, leaning against the dojo's doorframe. "Why don't you just stick to tai chi chuan?"

"This is more gratifying," Leo grunts, punching at the air. "Besides, I usually do tai chi before the workouts."

"Uh huh." Mike comes over to the bench and sits down, watching him.

Leonardo stops and turns, looking at him. "Is this your way of asking to spar with me?"

Mike just shrugs. "Are you asking?"

Leo sighs. "Fine, okay. Hand me my katana? It's up against the wall."

Michaelangelo doesn't move. He looks at the sword, head cocked as if in amusement.

"Mikey? Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard, bro." Mike waves him back. "I'm getting it."

Leonardo stops moving. "Getting up would make it easier."

"For you, anyway." Calmly, Mike stretches out his hand to the sword as though it were right there. Leo blinks, takes a step back, as the sword suddenly is right there-- hurling itself across the room to settle in Mike's outstretched hand.

"Here ya go." Standing, Mike gives it to him, then takes his chucks out of his belt.

"Th-thanks."

They begin, and that's when Leo realizes that he can't hit his brother; that the blade never touches him. 

* * *

  1. **Eyes**



“Mike--” Raph gripped his brother’s arms, panic in his throat. Michaelangelo's skin felt like ice. But his eyes were…No, Raphael realized. Not dead—he wasn’t dead. Raph pressed a hand to his neck. Pulse was slow. He was barely breathing.

“Mike,” he said again, like a plea. “Come on, come back. You’re scaring me, bro, please…”

He slipped a hand around the back of Michaelangelo’s neck, lifting head and shoulders, trying not to look at the eyes, the dead eyes…a line from a T.S. Eliot poem suddenly popped into his head.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear.

“Shit,” he gasped. “Damn it…”

He propped Mike’s limp figure against the bedside, taking the stony face in his hands. “Mike, you better be in there, do you hear me? Wake up, damn it, wake up-- ”

A violent shudder gripped Mike suddenly and his eyes sparked, snapping into focus but still…not all there yet; and Raph could hear it again—the screaming.

“Too dark,” Mike said gutturally. “No good. Too dark…winding…paths…maze, labyrinth…fucking mansion…hotel…ghosts, sh-shadowwws…”

Raphael slapped him lightly, but he shuddered again and clenched his teeth, moaning. “House burnin’,” he murmured. “On fire…fire…everything’s burning…and they’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead, they’re deeeeeaaaaaad--”

His voice rose to a low howl, a sound of pain and terror, and Raphael gripped his jaw so hard he feared his fingers would bruise the skin. “Mike,” he gasped, eyes wide. “Mike, snap out of it!”

“Mike?” Leonardo was there suddenly, behind him, his mouth open, staring. “My god Raph, what’s wrong with him?!”

Raphael looked up, eyes desperate. “I don’t know! Dammit, he’s never--”

“It’s burning,” Michaelangelo gasped suddenly. “Get out—no time…Everything’s on fire…no time…dead…dead…”

Raphael struck him again, as hard as he could. Mike’s head rocked back, and then suddenly his eyes were clear and filled with hurt, staring at Raph, staring into him; and Raphael suddenly felt a wave of heat close in on him, like being trapped in an oven.

What the fuck…Then suddenly it passed, and Mike went limp. Raph and Leo looked at each other, still terribly confused, and darkness crossed Raphael's thoughts again.

* * *

_The past_

It was something none of them really wanted to talk about, let alone remember. Mike still occasionally slept with a tiny light near his bed, not so much as to chase shadows away, but to keep the ones in his head at bay. But darkness never did listen to pleas.

He’s standing there, half-turned to head into the kitchen, holding an empty soda can, when the violent chill hits him…the sense of something wrong, terribly wrong; the dreamy, half-remembered terror from the nightmare…he’s scared but can’t explain why…

"Mike?" Leonardo’s staring at him, getting up. He knows he’s gone white. "What's wrong?"

He tries to offer a smile. It doesn’t work. The terror’s getting stronger. "N-nothing," he stammers. "Uh...I just...all of a sudden I got that same feeling from the dream. I-it's probably nothing." He manages a tiny smile. "I'll be right back."  
He puts the can down and goes toward the kitchen, feeling as if some nameless beast is waiting for him, with blood on it’s jaws…his brain’s screaming at him not to move. The nightmare seems far away.

He steps into the kitchen. Empty. Like a tomb?

Walking all the way in, he hears a metal click behind him, and, slowly, turns.

There’s the black barrel of a gun pointing at his face.

“Which one are you?” a low, grating voice murmurs. Later, that voice would haunt his nightmares.

He can’t answer. He can’t move. His mouth opens, his eyes trained on the gun. They’re not playing games.

“I think he’s the one we want,” someone else says. “Remember, they said the mask was orange.”

Mike blinks, finally finding his voice. It comes out in a whisper. “H-how did you get…in here?”

“Top secret,” the voice says, smiling. He has time to notice the metal arm, the face, to realize it’s a cyborg; they all are.

He has time to consider the dream and the feeling of horror it had brought. He has time to think of his brothers.

_Oh—_

The cyborg’s finger tightens on the trigger.

“Trust me,” he grins. “You won’t feel a thing.”

 ** _\--Shit_**.

Then there’s a terrible roar, a flash of heat and light, and the feeling of being punched by a lead fist. It takes him a split second to realize what’s happening

(oh my god he shot me i've been shot)

before pain rips through him like a firestorm and he’s knocked back, head cracking against the wall, stars behind his eyes--

No no no no no…

There’s another roar, more precise, and the punch again; and then he feels it…feels something inside him shatter, something wet spill out and slide down his skin…knocks him back again and this time he falls, hitting the floor, falling into a shallow pool of something

(it’s red, crimson, looks like blood…oh my god it’s my blood)

that looks suspiciously like red paint and that’s already growing. Eyesight blurs. He feels so cold, lying there on his shattered side, listening to his breath dragging in and out. Breathing hurts. He wishes he could stop. It’s all happening in slow motion. He can hear yelling now. Raph, Don, the cyborgs…he can hear the clash of sword and metal. Feels almost peaceful now, so sleepy…dreamy…he watches shadows flicker in the distance, going farther away…

He can see, distantly, Leonardo and Splinter crouched over a body—his body. Blood is everywhere. Just…blood. All over the place.

_God, what an awful mess! And it’s all mine, too. Hope I don’t die._

His body is a mess, the left shoulder ripped open and slick with crimson. He can even see the bone. It’s getting blurry now, but…

_Is Leo crying? That’s a tear, isn’t it? Oh god, Leo, I’m sorry…_

As if underwater he hears Leo's thoughts,

(Don't die, Mikey. Mikey. Please. Hold on--)

and emotion wells up in a stranglehold. Leo is gripping his--the body's--hand so hard, but he can't feel it, can't feel anything…

He closes his eyes, and it all disappears. No sight, no sound, no feeling, no anything. He lies back and drifts, not even caring anymore. Not until voices start again, murmuring, and pain ripples through him, and he knows he's not in Kansas anymore.

* * *

Tommy opened his eyes and found himself lying on the ground a few feet away from a tree and a wrecked car.

(hey that's my car--)

Getting to his knees, he felt himself over--head, legs, ribs. Just bruised But…

  
_Carrie--where's Carrie?_

And then he remembered.

  
_Son of a bitch--_

The gunshot. The tire. The tree.

_They found us. They have Carrie. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit._

Staggering to his feet, Tommy began to run.

* * *

"What?" Looking up at them, he frowned, trying to figure out what he was doing on the floor, propped against his bed. "What's goin' on?"

Raphael stared at him for a second, then suddenly gripped his shoulders so hard Mike winced.

"Don't ever do that to me again," Raph hissed, and there was so much depth in his eyes Mike nearly drowned.

* * *

"You bastards," Carrie spat. She meant it, too.

"Careful," Hatcher said. "Don't want to get yourself worked up."

Her eyes followed him like predators. "Why did you do it?"

Feigning innocence, he turned. "Do what?"

Something inside her seemed to burst. "Why did you kill my parents, you cheap prick?"

That made him laugh. He threw back his head and tears formed in his eyes. "Oh, I'd hardly call myself cheap, sweetie. Truth of the matter is, I didn't kill them. The system did. Don't you know the system by now, Caroline?"

She didn't answer, but on a nearby shelf, things were shaking and cracking.

"Careful now," Hatcher said. "Don't want to blow off everything he taught you."

Her eyes grew wide, face paled. And then the intuition was on her.

"You don't really want me," she whispered. "You want Mike."

"Is that what he's called casually? I'll remember that." Hatcher untied her and helped her up from the chair. "There's a room set up for you upstairs. I'll have one of the men escort you."

  
She shot him a venomous look. "Why bother?"

Hatcher smiled. The beast smiled. "Wouldn't you want to be comfortable when everything starts happening?"

If she could have hit him, she would have. "Go to hell."

Hatcher said nothing. But as the man beside him took her arm and led her away, he smiled again. She was still feeling that shark's grin at her back when she was at the door of her prison.

* * *

Splashing his way through the sewers, Don clutched the books to his plastron. Borrowed with April’s card, of course; he still wasn’t sure if he should really get his own. Maybe one day. Donatello Hamato. April’s address, of course. But for now…

_Besides, she’d kill me if I ever lost the card._

He pushed the door open and walked in. Everybody was sitting at the kitchen table, and as Don took it in, taking off his coat, Splinter pushed a mug of what looked like very strong stuff in front of Michaelangelo.

“Um, hi. Did…I miss something?”

Leonardo glanced up. “Hey, Donnie.”

Don pulled up a chair and sat. “What time is it?”

“Probably around seven.” Leo looked up at the wall clock.

Donatello looked across the table. Mike was gingerly sipping the drink, making a rather horrible face as he swallowed.

“Gahh…Master, I don’t think now’s the best time to get me drunk.”

The rat merely cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Whiskey does have a strong flavor when mixed.”

Raphael’s eyes widened. “You gave him whiskey?”

“We have whiskey?” Leonardo added.

“Could someone please tell me what’s going on?” Donatello asked.

Mike choked a little as the drink went down the wrong pipe, and coughed, spluttering. “’Kay…kay, I’m okay now. Aghh. Damn, that’s strong.”

“What’s in there, anyway?” Raphael asked.

“Herbs, spices, broth, brandy…an assortment.” Splinter took the half-empty mug and set it aside.

“I knew it,” Mike groaned. “He’s tryin’ to get me drunk. Splinter’s a closet party animal.”

The corner of Splinter’s mouth twitched. “I am sure. How do you feel?”

“Um, confused?” Michaelangelo said. “Ask Raph, he’s the one who smacked me.”

Raphael rubbed a hand over his eyes. “God, you really don’t remember…Fine. I came in and you were lying on the floor looking dead. Eyes wide open. Do you know how freakin’ badly that scared me?”

“Umm…I got an idea…”

“Then you started…talking. Or something. I mean, one minute, you were gone, next minute you were…it was like a trance.”

“Wait…gone?” Mike’s head snapped up. “Oh. Okay, I get it.”

“Astral projection?” Don asked, catching on.

Mike shook his head. “Uh, not really. I just…go somewhere else. Not out there. In my own head. You know, like a different…uh, perspective.”

“Telepathy? Premonition? Remote viewing?”

“Jeez, Donnie, since when did you become J.B. Rhine?” Raphael looked up. “Well, Mike? Are you going to explain or what?”

Michelangelo reached for the mug and looked down at it, his jaw clenched. “I. Don’t. Remember.”

“Is it me,” Don asked suddenly, “or is that stuff boiling?”

Leonardo’s eyes widened. “Um…Mike…”

“Oh. Sorry.”

(Back off, dammit!)

The bubbling inside the mug simmered.

“Jesus, calm down, kiddo.” Raph shook his head. “I just asked you a question.”

“And I gave you an answer. I can’t help it if I don’t remember.”

Splinter touched his hand. “You don’t have to say anything, Michelangelo. We are just concerned about--”

“Yeah…I know.” Scraping back the chair, Mike stood up. And promptly slumped to the floor as his legs gave out.

“Oh man--” Raph leaped up and crouched, putting his arms around Mike’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Michaelangelo murmured. “Let go, I’m all right.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” Donatello said, coming over.

“What happened?” Leo asked.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t…I don’t know, okay? I just…”

He clenched his fists as the feeling shuddered over him, then pushed Raph away and stood up.

 _Something’s wrong_ , his mind whispered.

“Why don’t you go rest or something?” Don asked.

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

He looked back at Splinter, who met his eyes with a dark look, and stepped out.

Raphael watched him go, felt the crossfire of emotions whirl inside. _Damn it Mike, where are you? You’re getting worse than me._

Don touched his shoulder, as if reassuring him—or both of them.

“I think we know when this started,” Donatello murmured, like a ghost.

Raph closed his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

-

**_In the past, after the war:_ **

He feels a soft, searching pressure and his breath catches; he squeezes again, and then Mike’s hand turns in his own, pressing, and the soft blue eyes open, focusing on his face, and Raph struggles to control the tears.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back.”

Michelangelo just stares at him, blinking slowly, and then a pale smile moves across his face. “Hey y’self. Wheremi?”

“Infirmary again,” Raph says, swallowing. “You were--” He swallows again and mentally slaps himself. “Out for…a while.”

Mike frowns; it looks as if just moving is an effort. His eyes sweep the room, taking in the others crowded around. He makes a small sound, as if talking hurts.

“What was that?” April asks, leaning down to stroke his head.

“How long?”

They look at each other. April’s hand continues to brush over his temple.

“How long?” the weak voice repeats, the eyes fixed on her, perfectly clear now“Three weeks,” she whispers, in a rush, and watches his eyes. Watches as they seem to change, to almost glitter; retreat…she’s suddenly aware of his mind trying to curl up and hide away, to deny, to…

“Three weeks,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Sonuva--”

“Don’t,” April almost gasps. “Mike, don’t, you have to get better now--”

“S’okay,” he whispers, smiling at her. “Over now.” He closes his eyes, looks at them, at Splinter. “I’m kinda tired…”

“Of course.” The rat touches his cheek. “Rest now, my son.”

Raphael watches as Mike’s eyes fall closed, as his head turns on the pillow. But his hand still grips his own until sleep takes over, and even then Raph clamps down on the emotion building up, and doesn’t move until Leo takes him by the shoulders from behind, and pulls him away.

* * *

He stumbled toward the road, pain radiating up his legs. Disorientation. Frustration. He had tried…he loved her, damn it, and…  
  
“Carrie,” he whispered, and fell to his knees.

A figure melted out of the shadows behind him. The trank gun went off with a soft _phht._ When the dart hit his neck, he groaned once, and fell.

* * *

_The Past:_

Slowly, feeling comes back again, tingling; his arms, sides, legs, feet. Feels so heavy…like lead…even his eyes…He opens them slowly, listens to the steady beeping, becomes aware of the needle in his right wrist. Everything hurts—his face, his leg, his arm…pressure in his chest.

He tries to lift a hand, tries to move, but then the world tilts again and he grips the mattress, holding his breath, feeling as if even one finger lifted would tip him off the wildly tilting earth…

The door creaks open softly, and he turns his head, suddenly catching sight of his reflection in the metal machines. Unrecognizable. Bruises everywhere, purple, yellow, angry gashes…and that’s just his face. He doesn’t want to know about the rest of him. But at least he’s away from the darkness…at least it doesn’t hurt that bad anymore…

Splinter walks in with a bowl and a rag. He stands there for a minute, sees that he’s awake, comes over with a heavy smile.

“Hi,” Mike whispers.

Splinter smiles back, reassuring. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

_Like shit…_

He swallows painfully. “Like I just got pummeled by twelve punks with baseball bats.”

Talking hurts still; it’s been too long. Three weeks; he still can’t believe it’s been three weeks…

Splinter presses the wet cloth to his face, and it feels good, feels like childhood. He closes his eyes, and he can tell Splinter catches the tear that slips out from one trembling eyelid. The rat says nothing; just cleans the wounds…so many wounds…and it’s all warmth now…numbness and warmth…He wants to cry but can’t, it would hurt, moving anything would hurt and he doesn’t want to hurt right now…

 _Damn him,_ he screams silently. _Damn him!_

Three weeks of shadow for a year of pain. He slowly clenches his fist, and the tears are streaming down his face now; he barely hears Splinter leave…and when the door closes again he turns his face into the pillow, shuddering…

* * *

_The Present:_

Carrie lay on her side on the huge couch they had provided--all the comforts of home. They wanted her to stay. They wanted her to do the tests and cooperate and everything would be all right. No one would get hurt. She was finding that hard to believe.

She had come to the ultimate conclusion that Tommy was dead. He wasn't here; they probably killed him and dumped the body somewhere convenient. She pressed her wrists to her face to muffle the sobs.

_But it's not really me they want, it's Michaelangelo- -Mike, they're after Mike, they know what he can do…why are they keeping me here if I'm not what they're after?_

She sat up slowly, aware of the camera in the corner of the ceiling, watching her, and stared blankly at the silent television. She waited for the nightmare to continue.

* * *

_The Past_

He lifts his head to find Raph sitting nearby, nodding off.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice feels better now. Stronger. It's been--what? A week?--and he's starting to feel almost like new. Still stuck in bed, bandaged, painful to move too much…but feeling better.

"Hey," he says again, and Raph's head jerks up. He turns, smiles.

"How ya feeling?"

Mike shrugs; four days ago he might not have been able to do that. "Better. When can I get outta here, huh?"

Raphael smirks. "Have you tried walking lately?"

Mike groans. "At least I know I _can_ walk…"

"Yeah…"

Pushing himself up halfway, Mike groans again and looks at the distance between the bed and the door. "Eh. I can do that."

"Whoa, whoa…" Raph jumps up, hands out. "Hang on, Mike, I don't know if that's such a good-- "

"Hey, I won't _know_ till I _try,_ right?" Ignoring the burst of pain screaming through his muscles, Michaelangelo sits up all the way and throws back the covers.

"Mike," Raph says, "wait--"

But the covers are off and Mike sees and his face slowly blanches, eyes taking in the gauze-wrapped left leg, from ankle to mid-thigh. He feels the skin beneath itching slightly, throbbing, and knows without looking that it's not pretty.

"What--" He looks at Raphael in bewilderment. "What…happened? I though it was just a gash…"

Raph bites his lip. "Scratched the bone," he mumbles. "Cut through muscle 'n tendon, ligament…it was the slowest healing. Donnie didn't want you to know until it was healed…"

"Son of a--" Sighing, Mike closes his eyes, looks at his leg again. It's going to leave an ugly scar unless he can get to it later.

"Well…could be worse," he says half to himself, and slowly eases his legs over the side of the bed.

Raph is at his side, hand out to support, but Mike waves it away and puts both feet on the floor, slowly rising, and when he's on two feet the shakiness and the weakness kick in, and he falls a little. Raphael catches him, arms strong against plastron and carapace. "I told you, maybe you should--"

"Keep going," Mike says, gritting his teeth. He stands up and looks at the door; one foot in front of the other. He's limping like a cripple on that one leg, but he's doing it--walking toward the door, little by little; then just as his fingertips brush the knob, it all gives way. He collapses, his body spent, suddenly shaking and flaring with heat. Raphael springs and is at his side in a second, arms around him.

"Come on," he says gently. "That's enough. That's enough, Mikey."

Michelangelo makes a small protest, but the fever's clouding him, and it's all he can do to not slump into his brother's arms; to try to be strong and make it back himself…no more invalid, no more needing help…

"Mikey," Raphael says in his ear, and he realizes he's close to crying. Carefully, Raph sets him back against the pillow, covering him. He tries to turn away so Raph can't see his face.

"It's okay you know," Raphael says quietly. "I'd feel the same way."

He blinks, looking at him, and sees more to his fiery brother than anger and irrationality. Compassion. The other half of himself. Raph would know. Just as Mike would if Raph were in this mess.

"Thanks," he whispers, and smiles.

Raphael smiles back, and for a minute Mike can feel the sun peeking through again.

* * *

"I'm goin' after him."

"Wait." Donatello gripped his arm. "Where do you think you're going, anyway?"

"Where he is. I _know,_ " Raph said,. "I can…feel him."

"Doesn't mean you should just--"

"God, Don, you can be just like Leo sometimes, ya know that? Let go!"

Don let go. "Call Casey, at least."

Raphael gave him a look. "What, you think I can't handle this on my own?"

"No, I think--"

"Yeah I know what you _think._ You done mothering me?"

Donatello sighed, turning away, not wanting to risk an argument. "Fine. Whatever. I don't care. Just…"

"What?" Raph challenged.

"Be careful."

He felt a thick hand on his shoulder. "I will, Donnie. I'll come back."

"Yeah. I know."

* * *

### 6\. Heart

He struggled, screaming like a wild animal; twisted from their grasp and ran, pulse pounding, until solid concrete hit his sneakers and air rushed past; continued to run until a figure loomed in the distance—familiar shadow, and he almost cried out…hands reached forth and grasped his shoulders…

The boy jerked violently under Raphael’s hands and then suddenly quieted, shuddering. “Hey,” Raph said. “Easy.”

The boy blinked. “You—you’re not Michelangelo.”

Raph frowned.

“W-which one are you?” the boy breathed.

“Raphael.” He let go, studying the face. “Are you…Tommy?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “They have Carrie…my girlfriend…they shot my car…we hit a tree and they took her…tried to take me but I ran…”

Raph gripped his arm again, jaw clenching. “My brother—Mike—have you seen him?”

“N-no...I was going to try and find him…I need his help…”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry kid, we’ll--”

Suddenly the night seemed to explode around them, shadows whirling and descending. Tommy yelled; someone dragged him back, something else cracked against the side of Raph’s skull…

_Shit…_

He reached up and grabbed the gun, wrenching it, whirling, trying to see…but suddenly there were just too many…and then something pricked his arm and he fell to his knees as the world became a blur…

* * *

“Sonofa _bitch,_ let me go!”

“Stay quiet, will you! You want us to trank you again?”

“Why did you kill him, you--”

“We didn’t kill the turtle, Thomas.”

“Damn it, let me go! I’m not going anywh--”

“Not even to see your girlfriend?”

He stopped, gasping. She was alive. She was still alive.

“Don’t hurt us,” he whispered in the dark. “Please.”

No one answered.

* * *

The door creaked open slowly. Carrie looked up, and cried out.

“Oh my god, Tommy, what are you _doing_ here? I thought you were dead, I thought…”

“Shh,” he whispered, holding her. “I’m okay. But we have to get out of here. Damn it, we have to get out!”

“How? Security’s everywhere.”

“We have to think.” He didn’t raise his voice above that whisper, led her to the couch and sat them both down, pulling her onto his lap. “God, Carrie, I got so scared…I thought…”

“I know,” she murmured. “So did I. But—there are other things now, Tommy.”

He frowned. “Like what?”

She looked at him. “It’s not us they want.”

He blinked, and then, suddenly understood. “Oh my god…”

* * *

Hatcher parked on the side of the road, walked up a ways, and stood by a tree, waiting. The rifle was cold and heavy in his hands. He wasn’t sure just how he knew, but he had a hunch. Soon enough.

He watched shadows from the trees stretch out across the road, looked up at the moon shining round and full.

“Come to me now,” he whispered. “I’ll take you to them.”

And minutes later, he heard the soft sound of footsteps running in the dark, a single breathless heartbeat seeking, anticipating…

* * *

A knock at the door. Leonardo opened it, and his brother practically fell onto him. “Jeez, Raph, have you been putting on weight? What happened?”

“Tranquilizer,” Raphael muttered, standing shakily.

_“What?”_

“I found one of the kids Mike was talking about. The girl’s been kidnapped. They just grabbed the boy again.”

“Holy shit--”

“And I didn’t find Mike….”

“He couldn’t be--”

“No. Not yet. I’d know, Leo.”

Donatello came running. “Raph, are you okay?”

“Sorta. Mike’s gone missing, those friends of his are missing…the whole fucking world’s gone insane…”

“It gets better,” Don said drily. “Guess what I found on the internet.”

Leo looked up. “I don’t like the sound of that…”

* * *

_The past_

A thudding noise jolts him, and he glances up from the computer, frowning. Silence. The only ones home right now are him, Mike, and Splinter; and Splinter’s sleeping.

 _Mike probably tripped and knocked something over again…_ Don sighs, getting up and opening the workshop door, going out into the hall, looking around.

“Mikey? Everything okay?”

No answer. Automatically, he reaches for his bo. Five months have passed since Michaelangelo’s “transformation,” and Don isn’t about to take any chances with new enemies. Anything could happen now…

Slowly, he moves out, breathing softly, extending his senses. _Pizza…incense…TV’s still on…water’s running…_

That’s it. It’s coming from the kitchen. The water’s running full blast.

Don grips the bo with both hands, going toward the kitchen entrance, peeking in.

“Mikey? Oh god…”

He rushed in, wide-eyed, dropping the bo unconsciously. Michaelangelo is curled on the floor against the sink—arms tight against his plastron, crossed as though blocking something…his eyes are half-closed, and for an instant Don thinks it’s some sort of epileptic seizure.

_But Mike doesn’t have epilepsy…unless you count those premonitions as seizures…_

“Mike…” He crouches down next to his brother and touches his shoulder. “Mike, it’s me, Donny. Can you hear me?”

No answer. Mike’s not moving. Not shaking, not rocking; he looks as if he’s almost asleep. But his face is blank as a slate, and he’s breathing so slowly…

Sitting back, Don considers waiting for him to come out of it, then wonders if it’s such a good thing to leave him in a premonition… _what if he doesn’t wake up…?_

Mike makes a low moaning sound, and Don takes that as a good sign and touches him again. “Mike? It’s Donatello. I’m here. Are you all right?”

Slowly, Mike’s eyes open and he looks at him, sleepily. “I think so, yeah. What happened?”

_He still doesn’t remember the trances…dammit…_

“You don’t know?”

Mike shakes his head. “Too dark,” he mumbles. “I have a headache. I’m gonna go to bed now…”

He stands up, holding onto the sink, and Don grabs his arm. “Mike, let me at least check you over…”

But Michelangelo gently pushes him away. “I’m not sick, Donny,” he says softly. “I just don’t know how to control it yet. I just get tired. That’s all.”

He turns back to the sink, leans over to switch off the faucets—and suddenly throws up pure stomach acid, sinking back down to the floor.

“Crap--” Don drops down with him, glancing up as the pounding water washes the mess away. “Are you--”

“Fine. Fine.” Mike wipes his mouth, taking a shaky breath. “Sorry. I didn’t eat much today.”

Somehow, Don gets the feeling there’s more to it than that. He grabs a glass, fills it, and gives it to Mike to wash his mouth out. “You sure you’re okay?”

Mike washes his mouth, drinks, and nods. “I think so. I--”

Suddenly he goes rigid, and Don pulls back a little. But then Mike lets out another soft moan, and the his eyes roll up and fall closed.

“Blood,” he whispers.

“What?”

“Somebody just died.”

And with that, Mike promptly passes out.

Catching him, Don stands up and half-drags, half-carries him into the bedroom, placing Mike on his bed and covering him with the blanket. Going back out to get another glass of water for when Mike wakes up, he passes the living room, where the television is blaring out a news bulletin.

“…brutally murdered on the corner of--”

Donatello freezes in his tracks, swiveling toward the television.

He barely hears the report. The body is horribly mangled, torn; he can see it even through the white blanket, which is soaking with blood.

_Butchered is more like it. Oh god—did Mikey see that? No wonder he…oh shit…_

He feels his stomach twist and swallows hard, struggling against the gag reflex. Michelangelo must have been hit with the vision while he was at the sink…he must have seen the whole thing. No wonder he didn’t remember—who would want to? _He said he can’t control it…well, we’d damn well better find a way…_

Swallowing again, he presses a hand to his stomach and reaches for the remote. The screen goes black, the horrible scene gone. But the mangled, dissected form still haunts him. Turning, he goes to the bedroom and looks in.

Mike is curled up in a fetal position, sleeping deeply. Donatello walks up to the bed and stands there, looking down at his little brother. Michaelangelo looks peaceful now, unfettered by dark visions—at least for now. Don bites his lip, letting out a shaky sigh.

_Damn it, Mike, I wish we could do something about this. You must be going through hell. You’re only sixteen…and you’re Mikey…this shouldn’t be happening to you…_

He closes the door softly behind him, then goes to the kitchen, turns off the water, and heads back to the living room.

* * *

Michelangelo crouched in semi-darkness, tapping out a half-remembered pattern on the ground out of nervousness. Something had happened. There’d been a sense of…displacement. He’d caught a sense of Raph, Tommy…together…and then not. Pain, brief, darkness, and then silence. Nothing. His muscles tensed. Something was coming.

Slowly, he stepped out into a strangely empty street, pausing as the silence grew thick and deafening. Like trying to move through molasses.

A sudden movement in the trees; he whirled, straining—nothing. _Something…_

There was no wind. No birds. Everything seemed so deadly silent. But there was _something…_

* * *

Waiting patiently, Hatcher watched as the creature picked up his sense, turning, eyes wide and searching. Fists were clenched, body held in a fighting stance. Jaw was clenched ever so slightly.

 _How fascinating,_ he mused. His finger tightened around the trigger.

As if suddenly realizing it, the mutant froze. Hatcher could see the beads of sweat against the thick skin. The way the plastron moved with each breath. He looked at the dip of the throat, just above the breastbone. Aimed.

The trigger almost seemed to pull itself. As air rushed past, he could hear the sound of frantic fluttering behind him, as birds rose in anticipated panic.

* * *

Michelangelo heard it a split second before he felt it. A sudden scream of wind, a narrow bolt—and then it hit him, straight in the throat, piercing skin. He staggered, a strangling sound flung from his mouth…dropped to his knees, hands groping for the long dart, grabbing metal and then nothing…

He staggered up again, trying to run, knowing with his system that he still had a little time left before it really hit…  
And then the car came rushing toward him.

It was a large, long black thing, almost like some predator out stalking against the night. Through blurred vision, there was time to notice that the shadow of the driver in the windshield seemed to almost lean forward. Anticipation.  
The wide bulk of it struck him and he flew, rolling, pain exploding but not quite touching; and then blackness.


	9. Chapter 9

Raph’s hands were shaking as he read the screen. “Shit,” he whispered. “Oh shit…”

Leo’s face had gone pale. “You mean _they’re_ the ones who--”

“We don’t know if they do have him yet,” Don said softly. “Let’s just hope they _don’t_ get their hands on him.”

Raphael closed his eyes, feeling a brief, strange pain—like being hit really hard with something really big—and then emptiness.

 _Mike,_ he thought sharply, _get the fuck out of there._

There was no answer.

* * *

There were voices. Moving in and out, floating, disembodied. He could remember hovering faces, weaving in and out…a dull sense of pain, aching. Sleepiness. What—

_What--?_

His eyes flew open and he bolted upright, jerked against something and felt cold iron under him.  
_Iron. Iron. No…_

In the darkness, he could just make it out—the black iron bars of a cage. A choked wail rose up in him—did they think he was an animal? No…he had to get out…had to…

Groaning, he crawled toward the bars…no chains holding him. Drugs were sufficient enough… _how much did they pump into me anyway?_ He pulled himself up and touched the bars, cold iron under his hands, and drew in a shuddering breath.

_Damn it, I hate hate HATE precognition…_

He wondered how long it would take them to start the tests. And sat there, moaning silently—anticipating.

* * *

Hatcher stood watching the screen, lip curled back in a slight smile. The mutant simply crouched there, lotus style, staring blankly. Yet the eyes were filled with such intelligence it was staggering. _Comprehension..._ that was the thing. He remembered the recorded conversation from the pizzeria.

“Is he going to do anything?” Morisson asked behind him.

“Shh.” Hatcher waved him silent.

“What? Not like he could hear us--”

“Shut up.”

The turtle was staring at the lock now, staring in a strange, unfocused way that made the hair on Hatcher’s neck stand up...

“Well,” he whispered.

Morisson caught it and stared, wide-eyed. “The drugs--”

“The drugs will prevent him from doing anything. For now.” But Hatcher didn’t take his eyes off the screen. He watched the unfocused cloudiness in the eyes suddenly turn into unfocused sharpness. He saw the iron lock creak ever so slightly.

And then a look of pain and frustration crossed the turtle’s face, and then it stopped.

“The drugs are working then,” Morisson said softly.

Hatcher merely nodded. “Get him prepped,” he said.” I’d like to begin the preliminaries.”

“Right away.”

* * *

“So they have him now?”  
He nodded.  
“Experiments—tests?”  
He nodded again.  
“Oh god…Tommy…they’ll kill him!”  
He glanced at the camera bolted to the ceiling corner. “No, I don’t think so.”

* * *

Mike sat with eyes closed, in darkness, skin tingling. Something was coming. He heard the door creak open, the lock slide from the loop…and then someone grabbed his arm, hauling him up, dragging him out…  
_The dream…shit…_

A blindfold pressed against his face; he stumbled into darkness. Everything was so silent; all he could hear was the slow breathing of his guide and his own heartbeat. He opened his mind and felt only twisting hallways and sterile labs…

_Oh no—_

A room. Small. White. Table. Straps. Lab.

He was hauled up onto the table, strapped down. The blindfold was pulled from his eyes and he was blinded by the flash of light that attacked suddenly.

“Damn it…” Mike squinted. “Where am I?”

“In a laboratory,” a voice answered smoothly.

 _I can see that, jack-ass._ “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know?”

The figure stepped back, lowering the flashlight, and he saw a chiseled dark face smiling like a shark.

“Should I know?” he asked, wincing.

“You’re the psychic. You tell me.”

He grimaced, feeling disgust. “Where’s Carrie?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“Where is she, dammit?”

Hatcher smiled again. “Like I said,” he replied, holding up a syringe. “That’s no concern of yours.”

He pushed the needle into the thick muscle of Michelangelo’s arm. The dream burst like a shadow’s explosion. Something flared inside his veins.

And Mike began to scream.

* * *

They lay together on the bed, shivering despite the body heat. Considering that it had been the first time, Carrie marveled that she had even been able to have any response in this place. But maybe it had been the fear, the need…something had broken free. Need? She wasn’t sure. But it had felt good. Warm. She almost felt safe.  
Tommy was still awake, and he was staring at her with a mixture of passion and fear. Somewhere in her mind she could hear screaming.And something in her mind began to scream back.

* * *

Splinter’s eyes flew open, his hands tightening against each other in his lap. But it was closed, his mind was shuttered; he couldn’t get through…

 _Michelangelo…_ he thought. _Fight it…_

But the darkness had already given him the answer.

* * *

_Too late,_ he thought. _No…_

“Never mind,” Raph whispered. They turned, puzzled.

Raph’s face twisted into a half-grimace.

“They’ve got him.”

* * *

  1. **Body**



The door opened, and Carrie walked in, an oddly shielded look on her face.

“What happened? Did they do anything?”

She shook her head. “Just…more tests. They keep asking me how strong I think it’s become.”

“The TK?”

“Yeah.” She joined him on the couch, resting her head on his shoulder. “They took blood tests too. Kept mumbling things about…about you too.”

“Me?” Tommy frowned.

“I don’t know…something about you and tests…”

“Tests…but I don’t have…”

“I know. But…I don’t know. Maybe…I mean, maybe you do, deep down. Maybe—god, Tommy, I don’t know! Who knows what they want from us?”

He stroked her shoulder, sighing. She let out a soft moan and moved closer, breathing softly, and the sudden ache between his legs made him shift a little. “Carrie…”

She said nothing, just continued to breathe in a way that made him almost shake. Unable to control it, he scooped her up and, as she laughed, fairly ran to the bedroom.

* * *

“How could he do that?” Raph muttered, pacing. “I mean, when did he decide to be a hero? I figured he'd grow out of the Turtle Titan thing.”

“It’s not like we could stop him, anyway,” Don said. “You know how stubborn he can be sometimes.”

“But this is life and death,” Leo said. “I agree with Raph.”

Raphael stopped and looked at him. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Leo rose and unsheathed his katana, running a finger along the flat side of the blade. “Maybe it’s just that ‘older brother’ thing, or the need to keep us together. Who knows.”

“He’ll be okay,” Donatello said. “He’d let us know…”

Raphael glared at him. “Damn it Donnie, now’s not the time to be such a pacifist! You wouldn’t be saying that if he was de--”

“Raphael.” Splinter was in the doorway, watching.

Shoulders relaxing, Raph bit his lip. “Sorry Master, I--”

The rat cocked his head. “No. Listen.”

Leo frowned. “For what?”

“Just listen,” Splinter said, softly.

They listened, each pulling the thread closer, weaving…telepathy and mind, sound and body. It came slowly, but strongly.

“Rhythm,” Donatello breathed.

“Like a heartbeat?” Leonardo asked.

But it was Raph who realized it first. “Besides that,” he whispered. “Oh shit…”

In the distance—shouting. Gunshots. The crackle of fire. But it was all in the mind, all in their minds…

“Premonition?” Leo gasped. “Mike’s? Or Splinter’s?”

“I…don’t know.” Don looked at him, at Splinter. The rat just shook his head.

“Things will come full circle soon,” was all he said, and then turned away.

* * *

Mike's eyelids fluttered slightly when he felt hands against his arm, fingers pushing. It was hard to wake up—they must have slipped something else into him…

He felt the needle tip, felt it pierce skin, but instead of something burning into him, it was something drawn out.

_Blood…they’re drawing blood…no, can’t let…gotta wake up…got to…_

But then something pressed against his face,

_(oxygen mask?)_

and everything else went dim.

* * *

Tommy heard something odd filtered through gossamer dreams, but didn’t open his eyes. Draft against his skin, cold…behind closed eyelids he thought he could see figures hovering over the bed…touching Carrie. He tried to move, tried to stop them, but this was a dream, and you couldn’t really do much in dreams…

Then it faded and he slipped back into slumber.

* * *

It was still early when she woke up. Tommy was stroking her face gently, murmuring. She rolled over, straddled him and kissed him playfully, then sat up, naked, pulling him up and leading him toward bathroom and shower.  
But when breakfast was done and they came back to take her for testing, she wasn’t surprised when they took Tommy down another hall. Scared, yes—worried. But overall, not very surprised.

* * *

“Well?” Morrison asked.

“What do you think?”

“I think Thomas shows potential. Not as much as her, but…”

“So there might be something there…” Hatcher leaned back in the thoughtfully.

The doctor nodded. “An eighty-percent chance. Dr. Farris has the turtle’s blood samples…”

“Perfect. Tell her to go ahead with it.”

Morrison frowned. “Are you sure it will work…?”

“If we do it right, yes. Let’s just hope Michelangelo doesn’t get too wise…”

“I can give him another dose…enough to block a little…”

“Do that. But just a little. We still have more tests to run.”

* * *

The leather straps were starting to chafe his wrists. He felt the flame _(cold fire)_ start to surface, muted by the drugs but still there; and for a fraction of a second held it quivering, ready. But Morrison had stopped by earlier and warned him that if he tried to do anything outside of the tests, the kids would be killed. Air pumped into his lungs and he breathed it in and out, letting them test his vitals, his reflexes, his mind. The power surged again, shuddered against the walls. Mike let it fall back and lay there, silently planning, when the chill touched the back of his neck.

* * *

_The Past_

Leo’s eyes open wide and he sits up as muted screams fill his ears. Without even looking around he bolts off the couch, knowing Raph is out prowling and Don and Splinter are at April’s…

The infirmary door is ajar and he pushes it open roughly, running in, free from the spiderwebs of sleep…  
“Mikey…it’s okay, I’m here. It’s Leo…you’re okay…”

He puts his arms around his shaking brother and sits down, feeling the bed itself tremble. “Relax, it’s okay. Just a nightmare. You’re okay, Mike.”

Mike has stopped screaming and his breaths come in sobs now, muffled as though he were hiding them. Leo waits until the shaking calms down and backs away. Michaelangelo doesn’t look at him, staring at the far wall. He has a strange, shuttered look, and Leo reaches out and tilts Mike’s chin up toward him. Mike’s eyes are huge and bright, staring straight at him with such fear that Leo feels something painful snap loose inside him, wanting nothing more than to take whatever pain it is away, to make his brother smile…

“What is it, Mike?” he asks. “You can tell me, it’s okay.”

Mike opens his mouth, drawing in deep breaths. Unconsciously his hand rubs his left shoulder. “I…just…just dreaming about the cyborgs…it still hurts…”

Leo sighs, stroking the back of Mike’s head reassuringly. “It’s over, Mikey. Don’t worry.”

Mike just looks at him. “The shooting, or the dreams?”

Leo bites his lip. “The…the shooting. It’s been a month.”

“It’s not going away, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I know…I’m sorry…” Leo swallows painfully, not knowing what else to say. His little brother lying unconscious for three weeks…it’s been two since he woke up, and the nightmares haven’t stopped…and being confined here, weak from the fever that refuses to break, with his leg…

“Well,” he says, trying to be somewhat cheerful, “at least you weren’t having bad premonitions this time.”

Mike doesn’t look at him, but shrugs lightly and half a smile flickers across his mouth.Leo’s stomach turns cold. “Did you?”

Mike doesn’t answer.

“Mike--” Leo grips his shoulder as gently as he can without disturbing the scars. “Did you see anything?”  
Michelangelo looks at him again, the eyes childlike and innocent, touched with streaks of pain and remembrance of shadows…

“I don’t remember,” he whispers. “I’m…tired, Leo.”

Nodding, Leo watches as he lays back down and pulls the covers almost over his head. For some reason, it feels disturbing. Leo can tell Mike has retracted his head partially into his shell. He doesn’t like it…it’s almost like a regression. Trying to hide from the world and the monsters it breeds.

But even when Michelangelo’s breathing deepens, even when Leo hears the lair door creak open, he stays, pulling a chair up to the bed, keeping vigil until a silent shadow appears in the doorway and he turns to meet Splinter’s eyes.

* * *

Mike was sweating. Hunger gnawed at him like clawed rodents, making his stomach tighten. The tests were over and he was alone. How long had it been since they gave him breakfast? Five hours? Maybe he should have told them about the fast metabolism…

Morrison and someone else came in then, silently unstrapping him and leading him toward a little testing room. There was wood, and paper in metal trays, and…

_Oh Jesus, cinderblocks…_

He remembered Splinter’s “tests.” The cinderblocks. Pyrokinesis. How did they know…?

He looked up toward the one-way glass, somehow knew Hatcher was up there. Smiling.

_Okay then, bastard. I’ll give you what you want. Then you’ll see what happens when you keep me prisoner._

Turning toward the metal tray with the newspaper and the woodchips, Mike smiled.

* * *

Tommy was shaking. The woman doctor pulled the electrodes off, scribbled on a clipboard, turned away. He stood up and looked at the open door. His heart jumped in his throat and then he ran.

* * *

The newspaper, of course, was the first to go. Then the woodchips. The edges of the metal tray had begun to twist, warp, dent inward and outward under the bask of heat. He sucked in a breath through his nose. Force spiraled out and curled around the large blocks and cylinders of wood standing around. The crackle of flames was like paper rustling.He kept his hands at his sides, breathing quickly, feeling it leap up in a rush.

 _Down…down…_ like scolding a animal…eager to jump from the cage… _stay down, stay back…don’t wanna scare ‘em off just yet…_

It felt fun, in a way. He wanted to laugh but knew that would have somehow been dangerous. Still…

_Wouldn’t they like to know._

He looked at the wall of cinderblock, thinking about Splinter. His muscles tightened a little. _Okay, time to play now…_

He pushed out with the same precision as Raph hurling a sai. The blocks didn’t start to burn—they literally exploded. In the back of his mind, he could feel everyone in the observation room flinch. Even Hatcher. He grinned.

_How’s that? Good enough? Keep watching, it’ll get better._

His thoughts felt like poison. He turned from the blaze, wiped the sweat off his neck, and waited for them to open the door.

* * *

Hatcher whirled, teeth bared. “What? When? How long ago?”

“I don’t know, maybe fifteen minutes…” Jensen’s jaw was clenched.

“Son of a—and no one saw him go?”

“Maybe he hid from the cameras? John, I don’t know--”

“Well get him back, dammit! Go!”

Morrison was at his side, frowning. “Why do we even need him now? He’s expendable…”

“I know,” Hatcher muttered. “But Thomas is our anchor for Caroline. And she’s the anchor for the turtle. And we need to keep him, at least until we get results…”

Jensen was already turning, talking into a cell phone. Hatcher watched him go, then turned back to the window and looked down at the turtle, standing there staring at his fiery little mess. _Ouch,_ he thought. _Imagine what he could do to an enemy._

Slowly, Michelangelo looked up, and it seemed he could see right through, right into Hatcher’s eyes. Maybe he could. But that wasn’t a concern at the moment.

 _If we can just get a few more diagnoses…a few more tests, we can have the formula. But the final thing, cooperation…_  
Morrison had told him it wouldn’t work. The blood chemistry wasn’t even human, let alone normal. But he figured with the right tampering… _Besides, if this mutant had been altered by an extraterrestrial force, his system might be adaptable--or capable of adapting others…_

Science fiction, maybe. But so were Ikashi Sumoto’s cyborg experiments. And those had worked.

 _We’ll see what happens,_ Hatcher thought. “Open the door,” he said. “Someone take him back to the lab. I’m going after Thomas.”

Morrison glanced at him. “I’ll take the mutant.”

* * *

But it wasn't backing down; that was the problem. He clamped hard, pulled back, felt something struggle… _no you don't…no…_

The water.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small porcelain tub in a corner of the room, filled to the brim. Clenching his teeth, he spiraled it out and watched a ripple tear across the tub, water boiling, steaming. Porcelain cracking. He thought about April's bathtub.

_Back--_

It fell apart. The door slid open. He turned. Morrison was standing there, staring at the tub with raised eyebrows.

"Time to go already?" Mike asked.

Morrison just looked at him. "If you're…done here."

"I'm done."

"All right then."

He followed the doctor out, noticing the way the shoulders were tensed. Afraid? Maybe. A brief smile flickered on his face. _You have no idea…_


	10. Chapter 10

She hugged the pillow, trying to stretch her thoughts; like Mike had shown her. She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, but somehow Tommy had gotten free. And now she knew she had to find him. Not much for telepathy or remote viewing, but worth a shot. _Tommy,_ she thought. _Tommy, Tommy._

Nothing came. A small sound fled the back of her throat and she stood up, pacing the room. Walked into the bedroom and looked around. So empty. She decided to take care of the garbage, at least. Leave the bag by the door; somebody would come pick it up.She reached down to grasp the plastic rim and paused. The trash looked as though someone had rooted through it. But why would someone want to look through her garbage, especially the one in the bedroom?

Carefully, she turned the bin over and shook it over the floor. Not much fell out, but she picked through it anyway. And then she noticed the thing that had been bothering her. Or rather, she didn’t notice.

The condom was gone. She frowned, wondering why it was such a big worry that someone had stolen a used condom. But the memory of that suddenly triggered something else—a sudden realization, almost pain.

A dim, foggy memory sprang at her. Figures in the dark, gently rolling her away from Tommy’s grip; she’d been asleep but still aware. A woman’s voice, hands on her legs and—

_Oh my god._

It felt as if something had prodded. Searched. Extracted. The ghost of the memory shivered between her legs.

Extracted. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening and the color draining from her face.

_Oh…my…god._

And then, finally, she knew why they had kept Tommy and her together.

The strength fled from Carrie’s legs. She sat frozen, stupefied, horror and repulsion quivering inside her. The sight of small mound of trash, mostly paper and tissues, suddenly sickened her. Staggering to her feet, she rushed into the bathroom and, coughing, sank to her knees by the toilet.

* * *

Everything was quiet; enough so that he could hear his own breathing. He stood there, unmoving, knees barely bent, hands flexing. Slowly, he began to move, fluid, strong, focusing only on his body and the way it flowed with the rhythm; feeling energy build up and release, build and release. Splinter had taught them all forms of tai chi, naturally, but he liked the yang style best. He spread out like a craned and swooped in, breathing out. So silent. Like a cold emptiness. The soft whirr-hum of the heater was the only sound.

He worked slowly, finished the short form, and turned to the desk and the book he’d been reading, when the emptiness surged and struck him; when the cold gripped him like an iron hand and a shock barreled through his limbs. He staggered, gaping, trying to make sense of it, trying to grasp…

 _Something’s wrong,_ he thought.

What else was new?

_No…something is wrong, something’s happened…can’t get a fix on it…_

And that was what frustrated him. He had limits, of course—but he had never really explored them, considered…and this simple premonition— _no, not future…now—_ eluded him like wind. He knew something bad had happened, but he didn’t know what. And the emptiness was filling him, cold and strange; so strange and foreign that he stumbled to the bed and fell on it, trying to fill the void somehow—white noise, half-remembered music, anything. There was no pain, no sharp feeling. There was a nothingness, emptiness. He wondered what they had done now, and abruptly decided to close his mind.

* * *

“I hate this.”

“What else is new?”

“You know what I mean.” He stood up, stared at the sai at his hand, and flung it at the wall. “And I hate _him,_ too.”  
Don blinked and sat up. “Why?”

“Because he’s full of shit, Donnie. He nearly died once—twice—and he thinks he can just walk up to the fire and not get burned. Doesn’t he know you can’t _do_ that by now?”

“Raph--” Don stood up, touched his arm, and looked at the dagger imbedded in the far wall. “Maybe you need some fresh air.”

“You trying to tell me something?” Raph asked with a rakish grin.

Don just raised an eyeridge. _Trying not to get into a Leo-type argument. You don’t need that now. Leo doesn’t need it._ “Trying to get you to go for a walk.”

Raph stalked to the wall and pulled out the sai.

“And no sneaking away on rescue missions,” Don added.

Turning to look at him, Raph showed his teeth again. “Who’s the mind reader here, anyway?”

“I’m serious, Raph. I don’t think Mike would like it.”

“Yeah, well Mike can go--”

Someone cleared his throat.

“Oh,” Raph grinned. “Hey Leo.”

“Better get going if you don’t want to head into traffic,” Leo said.

Raphael grinned again, looking from one to the other. “Nobody loves me anymore, huh?”

Leo rolled his eyes. Don just smiled. Raph turned left, giving the door a hearty bang as he shut it.

* * *

Mike waited for the cold to pass before he moved again. His limbs still felt disconnected, and his head was swimming. Slowly, it began to fade, like a bad aftertaste. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Thought about his promise to himself—to Carrie—that they’d get out.

_And we will. We’ll get out._

The ceiling almost danced before his eyes.

-She finally got up and washed her face, going back to the couch and curling up. Her head hurt. Closing her eyes, she began to feel herself slip into sleep, and then it came. Images, rushing past like scenery. A small blue-washed room. Canisters on shelves lining a wall. Two of them. Tiny things floating in translucent fluid. Vials of blood resting on a rack on a corner table. _But nothing looks right…the blood doesn’t look right…and the things floating, they look like—oh god, they look like—_

She was jolted by the sound of an alarm. Fire alarm. It sounded exactly like the ones at school—not a ringing, but a blaring klaxon. The images faded and she sat up, gasping. Fire drill or not, they would let her out, right? They wouldn’t leave her…

And then she remembered that in most buildings, a fire alarm going off triggered automatic locks on doors to be released…

Jumping off the couch, Carrie went to the door and rattled the knob, then turned it. The door pulled open, and she slowly moved out into the hall.

* * *

_The past_

He murmurs out of shaky dreams and opens his eyes, blinking against the red light of the alarm clock. Early enough. But he’s awake now.

Sitting up, rolling his tongue around his teeth, Raphael looks over and sees the two lumps under their covers. Still sleeping—he should be so lucky right now.

Stretching the kinks out of his neck, he gets up, stretches until his toes are almost off the floor and his fingers might brush the ceiling, and yawns. Then he goes out into the kitchen, gulps down cold orange juice from the carton, gently slams the refrigerator door, and looks around.

The kitchen is dark, yet bathed with soft light coming from the lamps left on overnight. With ninja steps, he makes his way to the infirmary door. Ajar as usual. Just to be on the safe side.He stands there, listening to the soft breathing from within. They unhooked the machines a couple of days ago, but Splinter still restricted Mike to bed rest here, just in case. Raph turns to walk away.

Even before it happens, he catches the shift in breath, the jerk and rustle of sheets, and then the cries, more like soft moans of pain, jagged. More rustling as sheets are shoved aside…Raph whirls and pushes open the door, eyes wide and glinting…

Michelangelo is struggling to get out of bed, one hand gripping his head, the other clutching the mattress edge. His face is tensed with pain—like a migraine attack. Raph makes an inaudible strangled noise and rushes forward.

“No—Mike, don’t, you’re not strong enough…”

He catches him quickly, hands gripping the shoulders as Mike jerks back in alarm. “It’s okay, it’s just me. What is it? What hurts?”

Mike shakes his head, breathing in hard, struggling gasps. As if he can’t seem to draw in air, or isn’t concentrating on breathing…

“Mike…” Raph puts his hand on the side of Mike’s head. “Talk to me. What hurts?”

“Everything,” Mike whispers. “My head…it wasn’t a dream, and then the pain started…”

Vision, Raph thinks. Remote viewing? “Hey, lay back down…won’t do you any good to move around now…”

“N-no…” Mike struggles against him, briefly. “Don’t wanna go back to sleep…I don’t want to see it again…”

“Nobody’s sayin’ anything about sleeping,” Raph says gently. “Want me to get a cold compress or something? That’ll help.”

“I can get it—” Pushing with slow strength, Mike is out of his grasp and clinging to the mattress. “I need to move…”

He takes a step; the injured left leg starts to shake and almost gives…and Raph can see the different kind of pain in his brother’s eyes. _Oh shit,_ he thinks. _This is really hurting him…_

A low, almost inaudible sob chokes out of Mike’s throat, but Raph can hear it. He watches solemnly as Mike stands up straight, teeth clenched; trying to put more weight on that gauze-wrapped leg…

And then his face slams shut as if struck, the leg gives out, he goes down with a muted cry. His eyes, already brimming, shut tightly as if it could block out emotion, the pain inside he doesn’t want to admit.

Raphael crouches down, reaching out to pull his brother to him, almost protectively. He feels like an older brother who knows the monsters in the shadows are real, who wishes desperately he could do something about it…

“It’s okay,” he says, and tries not to feel the tears in the back of his throat. “I’ll help you, okay? You just have to tell me.” He’s whispering, as if afraid of his own voice, and all the while hugging Mikey tighter, letting his brother cry silently.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he says again. “We’ll get through this. Don’t worry; it’ll be over soon.”

He stands up, slowly, and Mike follows. Helping him back on the bed, Raph hurries out to get a compress from the fridge, comes back and presses it above Mike’s eyes. Migraine not, he’d need it.

By the time Raph pulls the chair up, Mike is asleep, his face lined with the sort of tense pain a child wears when caught in a bad dream. Raph lets out a forlorn sigh, and wearily rests his head on his hand.

* * *

“It’s getting worse, you know,” a voice says softly, and Leo turns to find Raphael watching his morning kata.

“What is?” Leo asks, still moving.

Raph comes forward, frowning a little. “Mike,” he says. “He’s pretty bad.”

“You mean today, earlier?”

Raph nods. “I went to check on him ‘bout six, and he was trying to get up, he had some sort of migraine attack, I don’t know…but he still…”

He takes a deep breath, and Leo actually puts his swords down, turning to face him fully. Worry is already etched into his face.

“He still can’t walk, Leo,” Raph goes on. “That leg—it’s still pretty bad. And he still has the fever…and the nightmares…he doesn’t want to sleep anymore.”

Leo closed his eyes, nodding. “I don’t think he’s eating much, either.”

“Shit,” Raph murmurs. “What are we supposed to do? I mean, he’s been like this for two weeks now…and with his leg all screwed up there’s no way to exercise…if he doesn’t eat he’ll just--”

He stops, and Leo realizes that it’s because he’s struggling to control some deep emotion he doesn’t want to face. Frowning, Leo steps forward and grips his shoulder. “It’s okay, Raph. This is Mikey we’re talking about. Mikey. The optimist.”

“I know, but--” With a half-sigh, half-sob, Raph sits abruptly down on the dojo floor. Leonardo suddenly sees how tired he is, how weary, and sits beside him with an arm around his shoulders. Funny, he thinks, how a tragedy like this can bring people like the two of them closer together. Raph would never go for this under normal circumstances…The thought loosens something heavy inside him. He swallows.

“I’m just really worried, Leo. I think he’s not even trying to heal. If he wanted to, it could’ve all been over a week ago.”  
Leo nods. “I think you’re right. I think we’ve got to help him do it, make him want to heal…you know how sensitive he is, with or without--”

“Yeah.” Raph gives him a shaky smile. “Want me to tell Don?”

“I’ll tell him,” Leo smiles back. “You start convincing Kreskin to get better or he’ll be in for some serious head-whacking with Splinter’s stick.”

Raph grins, and it seems to reach his eyes, too. He stands, helps Leo to his feet, and holds onto the hand clasp, as something unspoken passes between them.

* * *

Raphael kicked at dirt as he walked the side-roads. No motorcycle this time—stretching his legs would be enough. Besides, he needed to get the frustration out, needed to get his mind off…

_Mike…why won’t you listen?_

He knew Mike meant well, but he was also deemed the “youngest,” and that was meant personality-wise as well. Raph hardly gave a rat’s ass that ESP had made Mike more mature or stronger—he was still a kid, still inclined…

He shook his head. That would change in a couple years, anyway…but still. It was hard not to think about it that way.  
 _Just get ready for a big “I told you so” when you come home, kiddo. ‘Cause I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t make it back in one piece._

Head down, he shuffled along, thinking of all the things he would do and say once he made sure Michaelangelo was safe again. When the long black car came moving toward him and the window rolled down, he barely had time to glance up before the black cylinder leaned out and the shot went off.

* * *

In the flickering glow of candles, the rat opened his eyes and shuddered.


	11. Chapter 11

Don’s hands suddenly shook over the keyboard; an unexplainable cold shivered over his skin. He felt shaky somehow, like during those chi energy exercises when he’d get hit…

Getting up, he made his way toward the training room. Leo was sitting on a narrow bench, breathing slow and hard as if suddenly attacked somehow.

“Leo—” Don started.

“Yeah,” Leo said, looking up. “I know.”

“What is it?”

Leo didn’t answer, the whites of his eyes flickering. “Raph.”

* * *

  1. **Soul**



Michelangelo was asleep when they walked in, and Morrison stood by nervously, syringe in hand. “I really don’t this is a good idea, John…we don’t know what we’re dealing with; this is a _mutated_ system, for Christ’s sake! And to top it off--”

“I know,” Hatcher said quietly, watching the slow rise and fall of the plastron under the sheet. “But the project’s already underway. We’re _not_ stopping now.”

“The embryos aren’t even stabilized. We’ve got the blood, but we can’t predict an outcome until--”

“Until what? Until he escapes before we’re done? We need to keep him _here,_ Sam.” Hatcher walked over to the bed and eased the sheet down so the upper bicep was exposed. He gestured toward Morrison, who placed the syringe in his hand.

Just as the needle tip touched the thick skin, Michelangelo jerked, still asleep-- they could see his eyes moving under the lids--but somehow aware…Hatcher pulled the needle back and watched…

And then the turtle cried out in pain, right arm jerking as if burned, back arching. But it wasn’t a reaction to the needle, not even to something _here…_

Hatcher waited. And then whatever it was stopped, and Mike fell still, easing back into sleep. Carefully, Hatcher leaned over and lifted one eyelid. The bright blue eye was rolled back and up, pupil dilated…he’d seen that before…

“What happened?” Morrison asked.

“He’s in communication with someone,” Hatcher said, straightening. “Or at least linked. Someone’s been hurt, and it’s affecting him.”

Slowly, he walked around to the other side of the bed, pulled the sheet down a little, and looked at the right arm. For an instant, flickering…just for an instant, it was there…

“My god,” he whispered.

“What?” Morrison repeated.

Hatcher shook his head and looked again. The blood was gone, the tear of the bullet wound vanished…illusion, just an illusion…

 _Incredible,_ he thought.

Prepping the syringe again, he injected and waited for the chemical to take effect.

* * *

“He’s _what?_ ”

“Calm down, Leonardo, I think he will be all right--”

“Dammit, why does this always happen to us…”

“Leo--” Don reached out a hand, stopped, looked at Splinter. The rat shook his head and Don watched as Leo sprinted out of the dojo and toward the front door. Seconds later it creaked open and Raph stumbled in, trailing blood and looking decidedly pale.

“Raph--” Quickly Leo was at his side, arms around him. “What happened? Who shot you?”

“I wish I knew…” Raph drew in a shaky breath. “Shit, this hurts…where’s a painkiller…”

Don and Splinter were already at the door to the infirmary. Don helped him onto the bed and took a look at the wound. “It’s lodged just in front of the bone,” he said. “He’s lost a lot of blood already.”

Leo caught the catch in his voice and glanced up. “But?”

“But…” and here Don offered a lopsided smile, “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that much.”

“Mike?” Leo asked.

“Y’mean you couldn’t figure that out from the beginning?” Raph’s voice was faint, threaded with shallow breathing, and Splinter lay a hand on his head.

“Relax, my son. Agitation won’t help your condition.”

Raph’s fists were almost white. He sighed and closed his eyes. “’Least he managed to stop the bleeding…but he still won’t tell me where he is…”

Bending down, Leo looked into his brother’s flushed face. “What happened?”

Drawing in another labored breath, Raph looked at him. “I was just walking. Then this black car comes out of nowhere, gun points out the window, and the next thing I know my arm is on fire, the car speeds away, and I hear Mike’s voice yelling in my head.”

“Yeah, he’s always been sensitive to you,” Leo nodded. “Did he say if he was all right?”

Raph nodded, barely. “Yeah…but he closed off. Damn it… _aaaggh!_ ”

His back arched, and Leo grabbed his hand, holding tight.

“Leo…” Donatello said. “Get the forceps…sterilize ‘em…get some water and bandages….more towels…”

Leonardo was already moving before the second word was out. He could already see Don’s hands stained with blood, the cloths pressed against the wound turning red…Raphael coughed and turned his head to Leo. “He said…not to worry…”

 _Gee, that’s easy enough to do,_ Leo thought, and handed Don the equipment. “I know, Raph. You’ll be fine.”

Through a blurry haze, Raph could see his brother’s face, swimming back and forth above him. Pain was a slow burning, but he found that he could ignore it if he didn’t think about it…getting darker… _ah, shit…_

“Leo…” he whispered, and blackness took over.

Donatello was barely aware of the conversation as he braced the arm and raised it slightly. He could see the chunk of lead embedded firmly in red sinew of muscle, red fluid pooling around the tear and leaking out from the flesh. He clamped more cloth to the wound. “Leo, how’s he doing?”

“Out cold, but breathing,” Leonardo reported.

“Probably a good thing, too,” Don muttered. “I doubt he’d want to witness my wonderful skills as a surgeon.”

Splinter lay a hand on his shoulder. “You are doing fine, Donatello. I’m sure Raphael will be grateful.”

“He’d better be, this is the only choice he’s got right now…”

-

Mike couldn’t feel his limbs when consciousness returned, and panicked for a good two minutes before he realized.  
 _Oh. More drugs. Yippee._

He figured the chemicals flowing through his bloodstream would have at least induced a trip or something-- but his system was influenced by something extraterrestrial and unknown. Who knew what type of reactions drugs produced-- or didn’t.

_So is this why they keep making me a living pincushion? So they can test their classified drugs and hope I don’t die? That makes me feel so much better…_

And what about Carrie and Tommy? Come to think of it, where _was_ Tommy? Mike hadn’t been able to contact Carrie since Raph’s shooting, and Tommy was nothing but a cold emptiness. Maybe they had drugged him too.

* * *

Mike sighed. He wasn’t so powerful; he couldn’t see everything. He knew that-- but wondered if Hatcher and the others did. If they knew how much they could analyze and hold him prisoner before everything went to hell. Even he didn’t know.

_Great. My one chance to really explore my own mind and it’s being tinkered with by Dr. Cyclops._

Maybe the drugs _were_ having a typical effect-- he felt apathetic, loose, peaceful. Sillier than usual. Damn brain. It was somewhat disturbing. He decided that, when he got out of here, he’d never take any type of drug. Ever. Then he remembered Raphael and the bullet wound-- and his own encounters with death.

_Well…okay…maybe painkillers…_

He wondered how Raph was doing.

He decided Raph was fine and began to think about sheep.

_Sheep? What?!?!_

_Helps to combat stress,_ a voice said. It sounded like Donatello’s. Now he really was tripping. Don never suggested sheep when he was stressed.

 _First time for everything,_ the parody of Leo’s voice added.

Michelangelo groaned and went back to sleep.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Don slowly inched the heated forceps into the wound. He could feel Splinter’s and Leo’s eyes on him, steadying his hand. Then he felt the metal grip lead, and pulled the bullet out slowly, thinking absurdly of the time Leo had gotten a sliver of wood stuck in his hand, and Don had used the tweezers…

_But this isn’t the same thing, of course it’s not, this is Raph’s life…_

But of course nothing was going to happen. Raph would be fine. He’d just stitch the wound, make sure infection didn’t set in, let Raph get some rest…

Splinter lay a hand on his arm. “Relax, my son. Your muscles are too tense…you must relax.”

Nodding, Don worked neck and shoulders until the ache in them faded. He placed the blood-streaked bullet on the cloth that Leo provided, staunched the wound, and picked up the needle and thread.

“Umm… Master Splinter? Maybe you should be doing this…”

With a lopsided smile, the rat sensei gently took the instruments and crouched in front of the wound.

* * *

She huddled on the bed, rocking back and forth, fists almost cut from the grip of her teeth. The image of the blue room still haunted her. _They didn’t…they couldn’t have…_

But they had. She was expendable now. Tommy was expendable. God knew what they would do to Michaelangelo.  
And she was afraid. She was very, very afraid.

* * *

He breathed in deep, felt shadows and nothingness surrounded him-- the ether again; he hadn’t been there in a while. Not since…

He gritted his teeth and pushed away the memory of the guns.

Slowly it wrapped around him and he detached, body relaxing and mind and senses swirling. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be back in the astral plane. He stayed there for a minute, taking in the mental darkness, pondering where he wanted to go, and decided away from here. And promptly was.

He looked at the dirt road, the trees surrounding the house, and realized this was not Manhattan, not by a long shot. Probably not even New York…

He moved further, space and time blurring, and was back in the city, overlooking familiar streets, alive with light and noise. He moved into the spot near the alleyway where, so many months ago, he had lain dying. He wondered if the blood still stained the concrete and went for a closer look. A rush of air behind him grabbed his attention and he turned slowly. “Oh,” he said. “Hi.”

“Old haunts?”

“Yeah…I guess. Couldn’t stay in body for long, could you?”

“I…” Raph looked down at himself, then back up. “I don’t even know where I am. This is the astral plane, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Visiting.”

“I see…” Raph looked down at the exact spot Mike had been after the helicopter incident.

“How’s your arm?” Mike asked.

“Still hurts, but I think it’s better. I don’t remember much after I passed out on that makeshift operating table.”

Mike nodded. “Just glad you’re still here.”

“Even though you’re not?”

“I’ll get out soon, Raph. Trust me.”

“I’d love to, Mike. Why don’t you just tell me where the fuck you are?”

Michelangelo sighed, closed his eyes-- and was gone. Raphael let out a growl, and promptly felt his astral self lurch forward and dissipate…and then he was looking at a large white building nestled between trees on a dirt road…

_Mike?_

  
Shit, he thought. This can’t be what it looks like…

_Where are you?_

“Sorry,” Mike said from behind him. “I got pulled. So…this is it. And no, you’re not crashing it. These people are dangerous.”

“Mikey…” He whirled with teeth bared, grabbing onto Mike’s surprisingly solid arm.

Mike didn’t flinch. “I’ll let you know.”

“What?”

“I’m…I’m gonna need you guys, just…not now. I’ll-- oh, shit, I gotta go. They’re about to wake me up. Look Raph, just…I’ll let you know.”

He was gone before Raph could blink, and just as quickly, Raph himself was surrounded by blackness. He felt the weight of his limbs, the rush of blood, the beat of heart. Slowly, he opened his eyes and found Donatello looking down at him.

“Welcome back,” Don said.

Raph gave a tired, frustrated smile. “Did I go anywhere?”

* * *

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the dominoes without much success. Morrison was watching him expectantly, watching the dominoes, but he couldn’t...he couldn’t...

_Feel like a fish in a bowl...being stared at...staring back at nothing..._

The dominoes were set up on a wheeled table, and Morrison gripped the table’s edges as if holding it there, back straight, still watching. Mike glanced up at him; somehow found it a little easier to look him in the face than he could Hatcher. He took a deep breath, pushed fingers against his temples, forced it, tried to make something come...

The first domino wobbled slightly, and a low growl escaped his throat. The black rectangle hadn’t tipped. With another growl, he bared his teeth and clenched his hands. Morrison looked up, frowning, and looked back at the dominoes, misinterpreting. “I thought you said you'd cooperate here.”

“Well, I can't exactly cooperate when you keep pumping me full of drugs, you asshole! You think I _like_ hallucinating about fluffy talking sheep?”

“Pardon?”

“Forget it. Let's just get this over with.”

“Then tip them over.”

Mike pressed his hands to his eyes, breathed in deep, felt the anger and resentment surface. And then it, the familiarity of it, barreling up like a shot from a cannon deep inside, spiraling up and out until he looked at the dominos and they all fell, rippling like a black tide. His head hurt. He didn’t look at Morrison.

“I got a headache. I don’t think I want to do anymore right now.”

The doctor was already scribbling on a clipboard. “I’ll let Mr. Hatcher know.”

_I bet you will._

Mike’s eyes followed him out.

* * *

_The past_

The smell of french toast drifts in as he wakes up. He wonders who’ll bring the breakfast-in-bed this time. He wishes he could walk so he could make it himself...

The door creaks open and April looks in, her hair in a ponytail and her eyes bright. _That makes one of us, at least…_  
“Morning.”

“It is?”

She grins, carefully balancing the tray. “Well, breakfast is usually an indication…”

Coming over, she sets the tray down on the table and sits. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better.” He’s said it so many times it was almost reflexive; every day it’s the same thing. Someone would bring food, sit down, talk, ask him how he’s feeling. Every time, the same answer. Not that it’s not true; he is getting better. He just wishes he could convince Leo that he needs to get out…

He’s halfway through the french toast when he looks up. “Hey April?”

“Yeah?”

“You think Leo would do anything if I went with you above-ground?”

She pauses and looked at him. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No. I just want some fresh air. And don’t tell me you’ll bring some in a bottle.”

She giggles. “Seriously Mike, I don’t know…I mean, your leg is still healing. The fever’s broken but it might come back. And you’re just not in any shape to move around right now.”

“Well, if people would stop treating me like an invalid--” He breaks off, not looking at her face, and then a little voice in the back of his mind murmurs, _if you’d stop treating yourself like one…_

He looks down at his hands, sees the long scar on his left palm from Nashima’s sword. He’d been in a funk for a few days; but he hadn’t thought…sure, he’d been depressed but…

“Raph was worried,” April says softly, breaking his thought. “Leo told me about the talk they had the other day. Mike, you _were_ depressed. You refused to eat, you were burning up, you were having nightmares, you were apathetic…of course they thought you didn’t want to get better.”

“At the time, I didn’t,” he says truthfully. “But…April…I want…I _need_ …”

“I know,” she says gently. “All right.”

Standing, she takes his hand and he sits on the edge of the bed, feet lightly touching the floor. Bracing himself against her shoulder, he stands slowly, shaking a little, willing strength into the muscles, telling himself over and over to move, to just do it, to just…walk…

“No, Mike,” April says suddenly, softly. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He blinks, realizes his face his wet…suddenly feels the lump in his throat and tries to swallow it…it’s just hard, he’s not used to this, it hurts…

“A-April… _shit_ …”

His leg shakes and won’t stop shaking.

“Mike,” she says, “take it easy, don’t get mad…you can do it…”

They move toward the door, and he’s all but clinging to her…just wants it to end, to go away…he just wants everything to go back to normal…

He puts too much weight on his left leg by accident and stumbles.

_“No…”_

Pain shoots up his calf and thigh and he freezes, locked in the pain for an instant, teeth clenched in an ineffective effort to block it out. April holds onto him tighter; she seems determined now to get him out the door and up to where he wants to go…

“It’s okay, you just slipped. Relax, Mike. Relax, it’ll pass…”

He nods, breathing deeply, and starts to limp as best he can, April with him at every step.

* * *

Raph sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his bandaged arm and hoping Splinter would give him permission to leave. He felt fine, he didn’t need to be watched over like this…it was just one gunshot wound.

 _Now I know how Mike felt. Sort of._ Getting up, he went to the door and saw an empty lair-- so far. He sat down in the living room and picked up the remote“Raphael.”

_Shit…no such luck._

“I’m fine, Master, really. I’ll be back in action in a few days.”

Splinter eased himself into the old sofa chair in the corner. “Even so…I do not want you to exercise yourself too much. It’s just a precaution.”

“I know…Splinter…I understand.” They had all been acting cautious since the cyborg raid, and that had been months ago. “Can I at least go get some fresh air?”

Splinter smiled. “Of course. Just make sure you are not seen.”

Raph flashed a grin and got up. “Never. At least…not again.”


	12. Chapter 12

He scooted up back to the pillow; lotus style, eyes half-closed…he could still see slivers of light from the ceiling…  
He felt his eyes roll back and his muscles loosen, felt something pull, felt something else trying to come through-- a rush of images, like a tapestry, woven…

Pictures swirled like stained glass windows. A woman. Brown hair gathered against the back of her head, a few tendrils hanging around her face. Lab coat, powder blue. Blue jeans underneath. Above the rush, that was the strongest. A woman standing in a room. Clear blue eyes looking right at him. She opened her mouth, he could almost hear…  
Movement. He smelled fire, burning wood. Alarms blaring. He couldn’t see…

Smoke was too thick. He shuddered, cringing back. What was it? He couldn’t see--

The mansion. It was on fire.

Fire alarms screamed in his head. When he opened his eyes again, cold sweat was pouring down his skin.

* * *

The woman who brushed past him dropped one of her books and he knelt to pick it up, holding closed the collar of his trench coat.

“Hey, wait--”

She turned; her eyes were clear and blue and her reddish brown hair was pulled back in a twist. She looked April's age.

“You dropped this.” He held it out-- _The Nature of Mutation._ He didn’t recognize the author-- it was probably a new release. Still, it sent a small chill running through him.

She came back, smiling, and took it, placing it back on top of the small stack in her arms. “Thanks. Makes me wish I had a cart or something.”

“I know the feeling.” Donatello smiled. "Good book?""I guess," she smiled. "I've never actually taken my own books out of the library, but a friend wanted them--"

Don's eyes widened. "Wait-- you wrote these?"

She nodded, looking at the top one. "I'm a biologist dabbling in different aspects of psychology. Not surprisingly, all my findings warrent enough to be placed under the 'bizarre' category."

He grinned. He remembered reading stuff like that.

"Anyway, I gotta go. Thanks again." She grinned and hefted the four books in her arms. Don watched as she opened the main door and headed out to the library steps. The book he had seen still lingered in his mind as he checked out his own books and hurried back to the streets.

* * *

Pacing the room, he tapped his fingers rhythmically against his plastron-- they had kept the straps off for now, when they had gotten tired of trying to get a reaction with the drugs. Mostly, all that had happened was that he’d been in pain for a while, or lost the power, or hallucinated in his dreams. He didn’t even know what the hell they’d been giving him anyway. All he knew was that it wasn’t over.

Going to the window, he tried to picture the outside world through the black iron cover. Shouldn’t be so hard…just close his eyes, imagine…

He felt the pull and then the sense of tearing as he stepped into the astral plane. It was getting easy-- just let go and pull away. Not as easy as the dreams, but he was getting there.

He felt his fingers grip the windowsill, and then he stepped away and found himself outside, surrounded by trees and lawns and a courtyard. It still looked like a hotel. A haunted one at that.

_But who knows what ghosts lurk here?_

He decided he’d better make sure there weren’t any new additions.

As if it was an answer, he was suddenly pulled to something else…a roadside a good three miles behind the house…trees and shadows…and he could see drying blood and a sneaker lying in the dirt.

_Oh shit…_

Quickly he shifted time-wise, saw the fresh footprints of someone running, and the sense of terror was strong; he couldn’t see the face but…

_This only happened yesterday, didn’t it? Who--_

And then he heard a gunshot-- several. No one was yelling, but he could hear the murmuring voices clearly.  
Almost clearly.

Another shot, an explosion of red and a scream--

Mike tried to cry out but couldn’t; the feeling was strangling… _I have to get out of here…_

He shut his eyes and the world tilted…he opened them and he was standing in the courtyard by one of the sculptures, gasping for breath…he didn’t think it was possible to feel like this in astral…

_Shit…how am I supposed to tell--_

Pain gripped his temples like a vise. With a low moan, he snapped back into his body and collapsed to the floor.

* * *

The grass was soft and soaked with dew once he stepped into Central Park. Glancing up at a slowly darkening sky, Raphael took a deep breath and let his skin breathe cool evening air. His right arm throbbed slightly, but he ignored it. The wound was taken care of; pain wasn’t a priority. He thought about Donnie cringing with the thread and needle. Splinter had assured him the surgery had gone well. Still…

Reaching a tree, he sat down against it, lotus-style, and stretched his arms above his head as far as the wound would allow, which wasn’t much. His mind turned back and clung to the memory of heat.

Fire had seared up his arm when the bullet struck; but a different kind had followed when Mike’s mental scream had reached him. The heat that had closed the wound; the heat that had probably kept Mike alive after the helicopter fall.

Raph winced and imagined he could feel himself crashing into the ground, with nothing but the strength of his mind to save his bones from shattering…Movement caught his eye and he silently rose to his feet.

A brown rabbit bounded out into the clearing, nose twitching. He relaxed slightly and crouched, unmoving, hand held out. The rabbit blinked at him, came forward slowly but without fear… _almost like it recognizes me from someplace…_

And then, almost unexpectedly, the rabbit hopped forward and into his arms.

* * *

Michelangelo rose to his knees slowly, not even feeling the shakes yet. His spine tingled; his entire left side throbbed… _where have I felt that before…?_

Pressing a hand to the side of his face, he leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and remembered the pain…

* * *

_The past_

Air screams past him, cold, biting. He clings to the bulk of the cyborg as if it could somehow stop them from falling, a last wish, a desperate stab…

_Can’t…breathe…got to…stay awake…_

Power flares around his body in that desperate stab; he feels it like a cool warmth. He takes one last gasp, and then suddenly he feels something loom up beneath him…the ground coming closer…

His mind screams a useless warning. He crashes into something so hard that it sends fire scorching through him, rattling every inch, forcing every part of him to scream until he thinks he’s going to die. The shield has buffered the impact but the pain still screams into his muscles and bones and head. He can hear and feel a silent wail explode from his jarred throat…his whole body jerks as if something is trying to break free…

Mikey opens his eyes.

He’s floating in a swirl of dark colors and throbbing flashes of white light. Not falling, not moving-- there’s no wind to support him. Deep breaths don’t make it better. He looks around at the nothingness and tries to think of something a little more visually pleasing. Pastels merge and blend where brilliance died. There’s still the sparks of light, but they’re not as bad now. He can feel something under his feet-- he guesses it’s ground. Another deep breath, and he looks at himself.

The bandages still swath his left shoulder, but there’s no pain now. Tearing them off, he sees no wound, not even a scar. Wasn’t he shot?

_Where…am I?_

And then he realizes.

Splinter tried to teach them this so many times…to break off from the physical and leap into the ether…the astral…  
 _The astral plane. Awesome. No wonder Leo thinks it’s such a trip!_

And then he remembers why he’s here.

_Shit-- did I die? Am I dying now? I gotta get back!_

But there’s no exit, no entrance; he can’t see any--

He closes his eyes and pictures the alley, and he sees it, sees his motionless body twisted on the ground, bleeding. Sees the shattered cyborg nearby. _Oh, I get it. Makes sense. You just...shift._

Mikey drifts back into the ether itself, and that’s when he suddenly turns and sees a figure sitting lotus-style a few yards away. _Leo! Hey, cool, Fearless Leader’s here!_

But the smile fades. Leonardo isn’t here on a pleasure trip. He’s come here to look for Mike. How Mike decides this, he’s not sure. But that’s why Leo’s here, and he knows that his brother won’t leave until he finds answers.  
Biting his lip, he walks over and taps his brother on the shoulder. “Hey, Leo…”

* * *

“Raphael went for a walk,” Splinter said. “I think in Central Park.”

Leonardo nodded. “I guess he’ll be okay, then. I just wish we knew why he was shot-- or who did it.”

Don had taken apart an old radio he’d stashed in his workshop and was now busily dismantling and reconstructing it; Leo could tell he was nervous if he kept tinkering with no real goal. Now Don glanced up. “It has to be those guys who took Mike. There’s no other explanation.”

“Okay, but _why?_ They don’t know about Raph.”

“They know Raphael was with the boy,” Splinter said quietly. “If they had gotten a good look at him, they would have recognized him again.”

Leo watched Don play with the wires for a few minutes. “I want Michelangelo out of there alive. I want him back home. I just wish I knew where to start.”

“Carrie,” Don said abruptly, and they both looked at him.

“The girl?” Leo asked.

He nodded. “Maybe if we find out who she is…we can find out who these guys are. I mean, if they hadn’t come after her, Mike wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Splinter nodded sagely. “A wise deduction. And where will you start?”

Standing, Don dusted off his hands and ducked into his workshop. “Internet, of course,” came the reply. 

* * *

  
Hatcher opened the door and let out a curse; he and Morrison both ran to the window, bent down, and gripped his arms…damn it, he was heavy, and the limp weight didn’t help…

“Come on,” Hatcher said. “Help me get him back to the bed…”

Morrison gripped the other shoulder, the left; that was when Michelangelo stirred.

“No…” he mumbled. “Hurts…Leo…get the others…not much time…”

“Who’s Leo?” Morrison asked.

“One of the other mutants, I think. He’s in a trance; it’s like sleepwalking. Don’t jolt him.”

They dragged him back toward the bed and pushed him against the pillows.

“You sure know a lot about this shit,” Morrison said.

“I have to,” Hatcher said simply.

The turtle whimpered slightly; it was an odd sound coming from a creature like this.

“Ghost pain,” Hatcher said. “He’s remembering something that hurt him. Maybe something like--”

“My god,” Morrison breathed. “Look at that…”

Hatcher blinked. Bullet wounds had suddenly appeared on the turtle’s left shoulder; the skin and shell was torn open…there was blood soaking the mattress.

 _Manifestation,_ he thought grimly. _Oh shit…_

The turtle’s breathing was suddenly shallow.

He turned to Morrison. “Prep an IV and a respirator. We can’t do anything about a transfusion right now.”

“What is it?”

“The power of mind over body,” Hatcher said grimly.

* * *

She raised her head, felt a distant pain, like a fading blow. A voice called to her. Michelangelo’s voice. _Carrie, I need your help._

Se scrambled up, stood off the bed. _What is it?_

_We have to get out of here. They’re about to put me under again and there’s no time. Show me what you’ve found._

_But--_

_Show me._

She closed her eyes, remembered the blue room and the embryos, the vials of his blood stripped of mutagen but flowing with psi…

Mentally he cursed. _I’m going to pull a fire alarm. I want you to get out and find my room. I’ll take it from there._

Twisting her hands, she grabbed her shoes. _What about Tommy?_

There was a pause. _I’m sorry, Carrie. He’s dead._

She sat down on the floor with a cry. _They killed him?_

_It wasn’t pretty. Carrie, I’m sorry…_

She was crying openly now, huddled on the floor. “Just do what you have to, Mike,” she whispered, and she knew he heard. “Just get us out of here…”

* * *

The rabbit’s fur was softer than anything he’d touched, even Splinter’s after a brushing. Raph held it close to his chest, crouched on his knees, watching the ears twitch. The little guy was so placid, almost like a pet…

And then he realized. _Shoulda known. This has Mikey written all over it. A way with animals, my foot. This is is a goddamn mental connection…_

The sound of cars on the street startled the rabbit and it jumped, scurrying back into the bushes. Raph brushed his hands off and stood, trying very hard not to think about his brother. The swans were in the pond again. There were songbirds skittering along the tree branches.

_Damn it Mike, why does everything have to remind me of you?_

He thought back to the dream he’d had-- the trip into the astral plane, seeing Mike. The mansion he’d seen, the surrounding area, didn’t look like Westchester County or Long Island. Well, maybe Westchester, but…

_But where? Come on, Mike, you’re going to have to do better than that._

He closed his eyes, tried to call it up again, but it faded like wisps of fog. Crossing his legs again, he eased into meditation, counting slowly…until the wide expanse of dark opened up before him and he fell…


	13. Chapter 13

Carrie sat numbly, waiting for another call from Mike, not bothering to wipe the tears from her face. So Tommy was dead. How convenient for them.

She bit down on her fist, and then the images hit her again-- the blue room; and another one, an office, with a desk, and something in the drawer; a computer disk…and she knew they had to get that disk before hell broke loose…

She saw fire raging up the walls of the mansion, saw the canisters in the blue room explode in a rush of fluid…she was running, and something was looming at her back, someone had taken firm hold of her wrist and was running, said something to her that she couldn’t make out…

And then it stopped and her eyes flew open. Alarms were screaming in her ears and she stood up and ran to the door.

* * *

Mike took a deep breath past the phantom pain, sought out the main controls for the alarms…pushed hard, and they screamed across his brain. He heard cursing erupt around him, but didn’t open his eyes. He knew the wounds were gone now; they always disappeared once he made them gone. But he had slipped and that had been dangerous. He sucked in another breath. The drugs were starting to take effect. He didn’t have much time.

 _Go out into the hall, check the topmost floors first,_ he thought, and pushed.

Precious seconds passed. He heard Hatcher speak to Morrison. “Go out into the hall. Check the topmost floors first. Make sure everything is secure.”

“Right.”

He heard Morrison leave; a minute later Hatcher’s footsteps faded away, running. Mike opened his eyes and sat up.

_Carrie?_

_I’m here, Mike. Damn, what did you do, set off the whole system?_

_Something like that. Hang on, I’ll show you where I am…_

* * *

Raph’s eyes flew open and he gasped for breath. Mike…shadows and fire…screaming…

_No, it was Mike, it was his mind, I just slipped in…how could I…_

The rapport, he reminded himself. That empathic connection.

_He said he’d let us know when he needed us…_

Getting up and sprinting out of the park, Raph desperately hoped it was soon.

* * *

Carrie ran blindly, people shoving past without a second glance. _You'd think they'd_ _at least go to check on me..._

But then she remembered Mike's push. He might have done the whole building. Didn't Hatcher once say she had it too? If they did come looking, she could...

The blaring seared her ears and it was all she could do not to hold her hands over her ears as she ran. Another hallway loomed up, and she turned into it, running along a winding maze. Third door on the right, she thought. Third door--

Someone caught her from behind, hands on her shoulders-- _security guard_ \--

"Hey, hold it," a voice boomed. "Where do you think you're going?"

Carrie froze, then blinked, and calmly turned. "I'm going to meet my friend," she said slowly. "We're going to get out of here. Can you tell me the fastest way outside?"

The guard's face became a mask. "Down the hall, stairwell's on the left," he said. "You take care now, Miss White."

And then he turned and was gone. The alarms slowly shut down. The hall seemed deathy quiet.

  
_Mike set off the alarms to distract everyone, get them out of the building...why? What does he want..._

And then the vision hit her. The fire. The gunshots. And Hatcher. Mike... _Oh my god...I understand now..._

She pressed a hand to her head. There was a slight throbbing, but it would pass. _At least it worked. Now for Mike..._

She turned to the door, pushed it open. Mike was sitting on the edge of the bed. Without a word, he jumped up and went to her,and then she was being pulled down the hall with his hand firmly against her wrist. "If anyone tries to grab you, push them hard," he said.

She nodded. "What will you be doing?"

He turned looked at her. "We need to destroy the evidence somehow. And the files on the disk."

"How?"

Mike hesitated, and then she saw something in his eyes, deep and mournful and filled with regret.

"Ever seen the movie _Firestarter_?"

* * *

"Well, her father was involved with some of this John Hatcher guy's projects, and then he quit, and then he and his wife died in a plane crash." Donnie ran his tongue over his teeth and scrolled a little further. "Typical, right?"

"Guess so." Leo peered over his shoulder. "But the wife worked with a woman named Sandra Blake. Think she's still around?"

"Why?"

"To get answers. Take a look-- it says she's a parapsychologist. Maybe we can get some answers for Mike, too."  
Don blew out his breath. "If we can find him."

* * *

She stood again at the door to the blue room. The blood samples. The stolen embryos that would be used for destruction. She felt the power stir and surface.

Anger.

The door blew open by itself. She glanced up at the ceiling, wishing she could watch as Mike broke into Hatcher's office. But at the moment, this needed to be done.

Needed...

 _Remember,_ she told herself. _You can't let them do this._

Carrie stepped into the room, focused on the canisters, and let the power loose.

* * *

In the distance, something crashed, something began to pound, over and over. Someone was chasing him. He almost tripped on a rug and faced an endless hallway, door after door. It was here somewhere...he just had to feel his way through...

There--

A shot ran out and he bolted. Someone was coming. First instinct; he ran to the door that had begun to glow like blood in his mind. Crashed it open. Oakwood desk. _The computer disk...the files..._

He dove under the desk, grabbed the locked drawer, pushed and it opened. The disk was there. He let loose and the file cabinet spewed forth papers and folders and documents.

He grabbed as much as he could, realized he wouldn't be able to carry it all out; then realized it was all on the disk. He tucked the disk into his belt.

 _Burn them then,_ a voice said. _Make it so they never catch you again._

He dropped the papers, looked at them, felt heat shimmer, rise, spiral...

The door burst open and Hatcher stood there. The gun was trained on Mike's head.

Mike smiled. "Too late."

The papers burst into smoky flame.

Hatcher fired, Mike ducked into a crouch, and the bullet shattered a window. Whirling, Mike threw Hatcher sideways into the wall.

The flames rose up, roaring. Alarms screamed again, on their own now, like a death song.

The door burst open, and Morrison stood there, gun in hand. Mike looked up, startled, saw the man's eyes, and decided a monstrous place like this bred monsters whose powers were unimaginable.

Morrison fired at him, twice; the bullets glanced off a mere inch from his body. Mike snarled, feeling helplessly used, helplessly betrayed in a way he couldn't explain. He lashed out.

Morrison's body was thrown out into the hall, a blazing ball of fire. Hatcher...he couldn't be sure, but he felt Hatcher being hurled back by the force and crash to the floor, his clothes burning. By the time Michelangelo rose to his feet, he was already trembling and fire was climbing the wood panels and rugs...

 _Carrie,_ he thought.

Michelangelo ran.

* * *

She found herself in total darkness; at the last minute she had swerved the force to make it hit the power box; the electricity went off. The power feeding into the canisters died.

_I have to get out of here..._

She ran, knocking something over with a splash. _The blood samples,_ she thought. Didn't matter. Just _run._

She burst through the door; ran...and then a shadow descended on her and grabbed her wrist again; he pulled her toward the hall and they ran together, and Carrie could smell smoke and fire swirling down the stairs, and the alarms were screaming again...

 _Get outside,_ someone thought, but she wasn't sure who. _Have to get outside..._

Outside, guns blasted at them. A silent figure with a face half-seared by fire stood less than twenty feet before them, pistol in hand, and Carrie felt the power inside Michelangelo spring to life...

* * *

"When was it published?" Raph asked. "This year?"

"Looks like it," Leo said. "Just like the other three. How could this woman know so much about--"

Don didn't say anything, just looked at the book titles that leapt out from the document. _Inside The Mind's Eye. The Forgotton Sense. Secrets In The Gene Pool. The Nature of Mutation._

Sandra Blake.

"I know who she is," he said.

They looked at him.

"The library," Don said, and proceeded to look the books up.

* * *

Don't move," Hatcher growled.

Michelangelo went one way, Carrie another; a second explosion rocked around them. Fire blazed from the third-story windows.

 _Hatcher has the gun--_ she thought at him.

 _Just run,_ he tossed at her. _Go!_

Most of the security team was either dead or running scared. He hated death. But it was him or them...

Hatcher circled him, the ruined left side of his face a twisted grimace.. "You're going to destroy everything!"

"I think I already have," Mike said calmly. "You know how I feel about Sumoto."

"So he tried to kill you! I didn't, I--"

"No, you did worse! And you were going to do what with it-- breed superminds, have some sort of super psychic guard? You're worse than Sumoto ever was..."

"No," Hatcher whispered, and fired again. It bounced off inches from Mike's face.

"You can't hurt me, Hatcher," he said. He looked around for Carrie, saw her, ran...

"Carrie!"

She turned, slowly; Hatcher raised the gun; and Mike saw it happen in his mind seconds before...he leaped, screaming...

Blood burst like a flower against the side of Carrie's neck and she dropped to the ground. Mike howled, landing on his feet and twisting around to whirl on Hatcher, knocked him back...but Hatcher scrambled up and ran...

Fire glared behind him and all around.

 _Let him go,_ the voice of reason murmured. He saw in the mind's eye, future flash; a shadow against the night, and a scream...

"Now, Raph," he whispered. "Now. I need you..."

_I need you, guys. Now..._

* * *

Raph jerked, grabbed Don's arm; Leo took a step back.

"I know where he is," Leo murmured.

"So do I," Raph said curtly. "Come on."

* * *

He dropped to his knees, touched her head. Her eyes were open, but glazed; she was choking on her own blood.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "Carrie..."

"You did what you had to," she whispered. "Mike...thank you...for..."

Her body gave a massive shudder. The light in her eyes went out.

_Thank you for what you've done for us._

Shaking, he passed a hand over her eyes, closing them. Crouched next to her body, with carnage and pain screaming around him, Mike sobbed.

* * *

"There," Leo said. "My god..."

The blaze was a torch-light, a beacon for the weary. Don screeched the van to a halt and they jumped out.

Raph reached him first. Blood was sticky on the ground; the girl's body was already cold. Mikey knelt in a pool of blood.

Raph touched his brother's shoulder; Mike looked up. He was shaking, his eyes blank.

"It's okay," Raph said softly. "We're going home."

He pulled Mike to his feet; let him lean on him heavily. Mike shook so hard his teeth were chattering.

"It'll be okay," Raph said again. "Come on..."

* * *

_The past_

"There," April says. "You okay?"

"I think so," he says, smiling at her. "Oh, yeah...feel that wind...the sun...oh man, I missed it..."

"How's your leg holding up?"

"It's okay. I just needed...y'know, just for a minute..."

She smiles, nodding, and reaches out for his hand. "I know, Mike. You just let me know when you want to come back..."

* * *

Splinter checked Mike's breathing again; lay the damp cloth over his forehead. "He should be all right," he said. "He has been deeply traumatized even more, now."

Leo bit his lip, nodded. "Something tells me it's not over, though."

Raph glanced up, noting how ominous that sounded. Mike had collapsed in a dead faint once they'd reached the lair-- shock, apparently. That had been half an hour ago. Raph tried not to think about what had gone on in that building before it had burned.

He blinked when Mike stirred, opened his eyes, and looked at them.

"Told you I'd make it back in one piece," he whispered.

Raph closed his eyes.

 _Sure,_ he thought. _Like a puzzle with a few pieces missing..._

He looked down when someone touched his arm. Mike was sitting up, looking at him sternly.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Let me do the suffering."

 _I can't,_ Raph thought, and spared a glance at Leo, who tilted his head as if in agreement.

Mike looked back and forth at them; at Don and Splinter, who looked so solemn. He thought about Carrie and Tommy, who would never see their senior prom.

 _No,_ he told himself. _You will not start crying again. Shit happens. You have to deal with it...you have to..._

"Michelangelo." Splinter touched his shoulder, and he tried to choke back the pain.

"I'll be all right," he whispered. "I just need..."

"I know," Splinter said softly. "Just give yourself time to heal."

Nodding, Mike ran his hands over his face, and slowly began to close out the shadows.

_There are some things in this world that are better left unexplained..._

-

##### Note: Quotes at the beginning of these parts are taken from TS Eliot’s poem “The Hollow Men”

### 1\. Memory

_We are the hollow men  
We are the stuffed men  
Leaning together  
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!  
Our dried voices, when  
We whisper together  
Are quiet and meaningless  
As wind in dry grass  
Or rats' feet over broken glass  
In our dry cellar_

The sky exploded and he screamed again, only this time it wasn’t just in his head…the burning face was coming back and the darkness was dripping with blood.

Someone called out to him and the shadows retreated…cold talons snapping him back into a sunless reality…

“Another nightmare?”

“Shh. He’s still asleep.”

He lowered his voice. “What was it this time?”

Raph shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me. Closed off completely, just sat there and shook for ten minutes until I made him go back to sleep. I don’t think we need to guess what they’ve been about.”

Closing his eyes, Leo wrapped his hands around the mug, staring at the tea inside. “What time is it?”

Shrugging, Raph glanced at the clock. “Five-fifteen, maybe?”

“I think we should let Mike sleep as late as he needs,” Leo said. “It hasn’t been that long since--”

“I don’t think I like it though,” Don cut in. “It’s a regression.”

Leo glanced at him. “He needs time to heal, Don. He watched people die. He’s—it’s been traumatic. I know, I’ve been there.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the three of them, listening to the ticking of clocks and the stillness of the air.

Then Raph’s head whipped around toward the bedroom door and he scraped back his chair. “Shit…”

“What?” Don stood up.

“Another one. Be right back.”

* * *

Raph pushed open the door and ran to the bedside. Mike was curled into a tight ball, arms over his head. Raph touched his arm carefully.

“No--” Mike jerked, his voice a high shudder. “No…go away…”

“Mike, it’s me again. It’s Raph. It’s okay, just relax…”

“No…make it go away…just make it stop…”

Feeling a tightness in his chest, Raph sat on the bed and pulled his shaking brother into his arms. “I’ll try, Mike. Can’t guarantee it, but we’ll try…it’s gonna be all right…we’ll make it be all right again, I promise…”

It was another fifteen minutes before the shaking subsided. Raph wasn’t even sure if Mike had heard him anymore.

* * *

“Better?” Don asked when he came back out.

“Not really.” Raph sat down at put his head in his hands.

“What?” Leo asked.

“Nothing,” Raphael whispered.

“Raph…”

“No. Leave me alone. Leave him alone. I can’t…”

Leaning over, Leo put a hand on his arm. “Are you in his head?”

Raph didn’t answer, just kept his head pressed into his palms. “Not like that,” he whispered finally. “He…it’s like he calls me and doesn’t realize. Like it’s automatic or something…”

Leo looked at Don, who looked back. Raph opening up like that…did he actually want to talk?

Don shook his head, as if understanding. No…he doesn’t even realize he is.

“It’ll be okay,” Don reassured.

A shadow appeared in the doorway. They looked up.

Mike was standing there like a sleepwalker, something dark all over his face.

 _“Shit!”_ Raph gasped, jumping up, eyes wide. Leo and Don were on their feet in half a second.

Red rivulets ran down Mike’s cheeks, disappearing below his jaw. He held up his shaking hands. They were covered in blood.

* * *

April got up, went to the window and pulled back the curtain. It was raining; dark clouds rolled across the sky. But there was no thunder. Rain poured down in sheets, splattering the dark pavements. She glanced at the clock radio. Five-thirty.

 _Something’s wrong,_ a tiny voice in the back of her head piped up.

The storm, she thought. The weather…

 _Something’s wrong,_ her mind whispered again.

She went to her nightstand and got her cell phone.

* * *

Something cool and wet against his face; stinging. He flinched, hands clenching…

“Sorry,” Don’s voice murmured. “I’m trying not to hurt you…”

He sucked in a deep breath. Something hurt…his eyes. Face. The cloth touched again and he made a weak noise of protest. Couldn’t remember.

A hand was closed over his own. “It’s okay,” Leo said in his ear. “It’s okay, just relax. Can you open your eyes?”

He opened them slowly; focused. Stared into Don’s face.

“Can you see me?” Don asked.

He nodded. A little out of focus. His eyes felt as if they’d been pressed, pushed…and something hurt…

He put a hand up to his face. Blood. “What did I do?” he whispered hoarsely.

Nightmare…

* * *

Leo's shell cell rang shrilly, startling the dawn silence. Leo braced himself before answering. "Hello?"

“Leo?”

“April? It’s six in the morning. Thought you were asleep.”

“Though you’d be too,” she said.

He frowned. “What is it?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I woke up, and it felt like something was wrong.”

Leo closed his eyes, sighing; was _everyone_ suddenly turning empathic? “Mike…had another nightmare. He sleepwalked again.”

April paused just a heartbeat. “What happened?”

“He scratched his face up pretty bad,” Leo whispered. “I think…I think he was trying to tear his eyes out.”

Stunned silence. “My god…” April breathed.

“He’s okay,” Leo added quickly. “He’s just starting to come out of it now.”

“Why?” she asked. He knew what she meant.

“Maybe…he doesn’t want to see the nightmares anymore.” He leaned his forehead against the phone, closing his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“But his inner sight is stronger,” she said.

He nodded. “I know. But terror makes you do wild things."

“Do you want me to come over?” she asked.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “But it might calm him down if we were all here…”

“I’m on my way,” she said curtly, and hung up. Leo stared at his shell cell, trying to count up how many times she had said those four words. Too many. He rested his head against the cold metal again, and went back to the kitchen.

* * *

  
Splinter was there now, hand against Mike’s temple. Mike was breathing hard and fast, almost panicky. His eyes were closed, his jaw trembling.

“What did I do?” he whispered again. “Donnie?”

“Scratched your face up,” Don replied quietly. Mike’s hand groped for something; Raph automatically grasped and held it.

Mike was shaking his head, his eyes open now. “I did that? I…” He pushed them away; got up and all but hobbled into the bathroom. Leo glanced at the others, then followed.

Mike was standing at the sink, staring at the mirror, his hands on his face and his eyes huge without his mask.

“Mike?” Leo asked softly. “You okay?”

“Leo…” he gasped. “I…oh god, I…”

He started trembling again; and Leo immediately rushed forward. “Hey...Mike, don’t worry…it’s okay…”

His brother turned with a choke; blood drying on his face and his eyes deep with fear. “No,” he whispered. “No, it’s not…it’s not…”

“Shh…” Leo put his arms around him. “You’ll get through this, Mikey, I promise. We won’t let you get hurt.”

Uncertain arms went around him, and then Mike was holding on tight. “Leo…sorry…”

“It’s all right,” he said, closing his eyes. “You’ll be okay.”

A minute later, the front door opened, and he heard April run in.


	14. Chapter 14

Splinter sealed the wounds with salve, and the bleeding stopped quicker than expected. Mike just sat there the whole time, eyes closed, breathing so slowly and focused that Don figured he was fixing it from the inside.

Mike finally came out of it around nine. He curled up on the couch, cross-legged, and ran his fingers over his face again, an expression of confusion and fear haunting him. Don sat down next to him and lightly touched his shoulder.

“How you doing?”

“Better,” Mike said quietly. He took his hands from his face and dropped them in his lap. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Don said, although inside he was still shaking. _Self-mutilation…and he didn’t even know he was doing it…he has no control over his dreams anymore…_

“It’s not like that,” Michaelangelo said softly, and Don almost jumped.

Mike bit his lip. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…to listen…”

“No, it’s okay. What?”

Sighing, Mike played with his bandanna tails. “It’s not that I don’t have control. I just…can’t make them go away.”

Don nodded slowly. “So you strike out the only way you know how…try to fight them off…and the only thing close by that you can fight is yourself…”

Closing his eyes, Mike exhaled. “So I end up hurting myself…and I don’t even realize it till I wake up…”

Don’s hand closed over his wrist. “Mike, what are you thinking? I mean, Splinter could brew you a tea, April could get you sleeping pills..."

His brother just shook his head. “No... I don't know... If I take something and I dream, I don't know if I'll be able to wake up enough to stop myself…to stop…”

Don felt something inside him tighten. “Mikey…”

“I can’t go to sleep, Don.” Mike turned and looked at him, and his eyes were dark fathoms. “I can’t let myself fall asleep…”

* * *

In the dusky light streaming beneath the manhole, he crouched with pen and notebook, hunched into the shadows. The slow drip of rainwater from overhead reverberated across the walls.  
  
 _Silence is a virtue  
Loneliness is pain  
Darkness all around  
Nothing left to gain _

  
“Philosophy won’t get you anywhere if you don’t make something of it,” the ghost with a thousand voices said in his ear. “Your own mind betrays you.”

  
_Nature is a vampire  
Sunless world of blood  
I lift my wings, soul to climb higher  
Caught forever in the flood _

  
“Poetry,” the ghost murmured. “That’s your life. You are an artist as much as you are a warrior. Maybe even more. The way you fight is poetry. The way you speak, like a youth trying to grow up, proves your denial, by the way.”

  
_I am silence in the void  
A thousand voices call  
My thoughts no longer move alone  
No choice but to fall _

  
“Denial of what?” he finally whispered.

“Your art, your craft, your intelligence. Your true place in the world,” the ghost said. “You hide your fear behind laughter. You can’t bear to see others in pain, so you take it all into yourself. And what does that leave you with?”

He closed the notebook and stood up. “I don’t have to listen to you anymore. You’ve been dead a long time. All of you.”  
He walked back toward the lair. The ghost with a thousand faces watched him go.

* * *

“When we get depressed, we do depressing things,” Raph said. “Mike vents in his writing. I just wish I could do that.”

“Who says you can’t?” Don asked.

Raph gave him a look, his legs swinging over the water. “Please. Me, a writer? I’m a warrior, not a poet.”

“Who says you can’t be both?” Don stood up on the bridge, wrapping a hand around one of the steel girders criss-crossing the structure. “I mean, I’m a warrior, but I’m also a scientist and philosopher. Leo’s a teacher, sort of. And you…c’mon, Raph, you can’t just have the soul of a warrior and nothing else.”

“And what if I do?” Raph stood up too, facing him. “Maybe that _is_ my art, Donnie. Has it ever occurred to you guys that Mike and I might be exactly the same?”

Don stood there for a minute, blinking. “Now that you mention it...”

With an exhaled burst of air, Raph gave a slight grin. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Looking down at the river, Don but his lip. “This morning, when Mike…called you. You said you couldn’t help it…you had to answer.”

“Yeah?” Raph said absently.

“Sometimes…” Don sat next to him and tilted his head back. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s like that for all of us. Maybe being around Mike just created a…conduit. We _feel_ each other.”

Raph looked at him, half in surprise, half in amusement. “We always have.”

Don shook his head. “Not like this, though.”

“Yeah…” Raph picked up a gray pebble and tossed it into the water. “I love Mikey to death…but sometimes I just wish the cup hadn’t been passed our way.”

* * *

He changed his mind and went up to the streets, moving into the shadows and pulling silence around him like a cloak, until he came to the building he had always called second home.

The roof was slick from the rain, but he didn’t care. Mike perched on the edge, fingers and toes curled, and carefully somersaulted onto wet tar ground. Sitting cross-legged, he took the notebook and pen from his belt and held them poised.

 _Sunlight,_ he thought.

The smell of coffee drifted up from somewhere.

 _Dance,_ a voice whispered in his head. _The dawn has already been called, but welcome the morning._

He got to his feet, took out his nunchucks, and began to move.

-

”You’re kidding, right?”

“I don’t know,” Don said softly. “I could see it.”

“Hell no.”

“Raph, come on.”

Stopping, Raph looked out at the slow morning sun. “Well…maybe…”

“Yeah?” Don was looking at him now.

“Sometimes…” Raph started, “sometimes I have these dreams where I’m standin in front of an easel, painting something, and it comes out really good, like a part of myself--”

“And you’ve never tried it? Mike has an easel, some paints…oils and acrylics…c’mon, Raph…”

“Maybe,” Raph repeated, softly, thinking about bloody sunrises and waterfalls…dragons in red skies…

_Maybe Mike would be willing to teach me…or Splinter…gotta let the aggressions out somehow, can’t always go beating up on things…_

_Damn,_ he thought. _Maybe Mike’s startin to rub off on me. I’m getting soft._

Although, as Mike had once put it...maybe softness wasn’t too much of a weakness after all.

* * *

The ghost was back, a thousand voices and a thousand faces...but always faceless and never one name.

He paused and bent to catch his breath, feeling sweat glisten against his skin. “What?”

“Just watching.” This time it had Carrie’s voice.

“Stop that,” he whispered.

“Can’t,” the ghost said. “We’re in you.”

“No,” he said.

Last time it had Hatcher’s sneer. This time...

“I’m sorry I let you die,” he whispered.

“You didn’t let anyone die. Death happens.”

He shook his head, leaning against the roof edge, staring out at the city. “It doesn’t always have to.”

The ghost came closer. “It’s a cycle.”

He closed his eyes. “I know.”

Gesturing to the notebook, the ghost cocked its head at him.

Mike shook his head. “I don’t feel like writing.”

“How unusual.”

Leaning against the wall of the fire door, Mike looked the apparition up and down. Faceless, really—but a thousand faces, a thousand voices. A composite… _why is it all haunting me now?_

“What are you?” he whispered. “You came from me—I know that. I keep calling you a ghost for lack of a better word. But you’re not. You’re memories. And I don’t even know if they’re all mine.”

“You know I’m more than that,” it said. “I’m the deep part of your subconscious. I’m _in_ you.”

He closed his eyes, running a hand over his face. “Could be that you _are_ me.”

“Perhaps.” The apparition looked again at the notebook. “Write a story,” it said. “Cheer up. Life is too serious to be taken too seriously.”

Mike grinned. “Now that’s me.”

He somersaulted forward, landed on his back next to the book and pen. Picking it up, he began to write from the prone position, pen flying, and barely even noticed when the voice of his unconscious mind faded away.

* * *

“Splinter?” Leo glanced up from the book. “Where are you going?”

“Just to Central Park,” he said, turning. “I need some time for my thoughts.”

Leo grinned. “Like you could really get it in here.”

The rat quirked an eyebrow. “Perhaps one of these days you could tell Raphael to tone down his music even _with_ the door closed?”

“Can do. Are you going to be okay up there?”

“Leonardo,” Splinter admonished. “I will be fine.”

 _Heard it once, heard it enough…_ “Just checking,” Leo said.

“I know.”

But even as he opened the door, Splinter was still smiling. _Kids…_

* * *

_You let your guard down._

He shook his head, head against cold tar ground. No.

_You forgot the warning. You didn’t see it coming._

I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d wanted to, he thought. They were in the lair. None of us could have seen it coming. Don’t even know how they got in…

_They wouldn’t have had to use the main door. They could have snuck through the pipes…_

He flung his arm out, watching the pen roll, the pad drop. “I will not think about it, I won’t…”

_Too late._

In his head, the cyborg’s voice grated like sandpaper on iron.

* * *

_The Past_

“Is he dead?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to Sumoto…”

Voices like pinpricks, little flashes of colored noise. He wants to curl up in a corner of his mind and hide…but they won’t let…

“Give me the forceps,” another voice snaps. A hand against his chest, a sudden flare of pain. But it’s far away; he can’t reach his body; no consciousness. _Still hurts._ He’s surprised at this point he can even…

_Shit!_

Another distant burst of pain— _they took out the bullets… **damn,** that hurts…_

Rustle of something…bandages. He can actually _hear_ a thread going through a needle.

_Why are they helping me? They shot me like they **wanted** to kill me._

Experimentation, naturally. Of course. They wouldn’t be able to do it on a corpse.

He settles back into the nothingness without pain, only blackness. Nothing but blackness and he can’t feel a thing… _I’d hate to see what death is like…that must be so tedious…_

Then again, he probably shouldn’t hex himself with that…it could actually happen…

_No, I am not going to die! I don’t want Raph joining me like that…_

Then again, would Raph really have the guts?

_Still... no dying tonight!_

Like he could actually have a say in that, the way things are going.

_I'm just sorry I won't have a chance to say--_

An agonizing burst of pain rips through him, and the nothingness becomes everything.

* * *

Mike sat up, feeling the ghost of pain in his side, his shoulder. _I could have died...but they made sure I didn't...but I did anyway...just a little..._

Just a little. He remembered the pain that ripped apart Raph's heart when he'd seen his brother's eyes-- fear-- anger--

_He was scared for me-- he was hurting. And I couldn't do anything..._

If it hadn't been for Don's equipment that first time, and then the energy chain the second time...

_Oh shit...not that. Not now._

He covered his face with his hands, rolling onto his side, drawing his knees to his chest. Not the battle. Not the face of the madman who killed him. Not the pain--

_Oh god no, don't make me remember the pain-- I'm not supposed to remember the pain..._

The crashing agony, black wave, being torn apart bit by bit-- and then the horrible wrenching tear of being yanked back, almost as bad-- but Raph screaming at him, voices echoing--

 _Don't die, Mike! Please!_ Raph again, barreling across a stripped and black wasteland. _You can't die, damn you! Don't leave me!_

And Don, right behind him... Don and Leo both, calling, their life forces surging... it reminded him of the things Splinter had taught them and made them forget. Urging life with your own. But that time, there had been an outside influence...

_Are the aliens still out there, anyway? Could they even hear me if I called?_

He remembered the strange human-like aliens, the young woman warning him as he slept...the young man urging him to get up and fight-- where were they? Out there somewhere? Still here?

_Nakon-- I remember him, at least. And the woman-- what was her name?_

He couldn't recall if she'd told him. It didn't really matter, anyway. He was here, they were there, life would go on.

Sitting up again, he reached for the notebook. Another poem. Less dark, more introspective. _At least it's something_  
He stood up, stretching, and saw Carrie's face again.

_Oh shit--_

Tommy's face, their voices in his head.

_Don't do this to me...please, I can't deal with it..._

Conversations with the dead. He sank to his knees with his palms against his eyes.

* * *

Splinter pulled the hood a little closer around his head, leaning on his staff and watching the horse-and-carriages go by. The wind was in the trees...he could almost smell nature through the city. Suddenly he missed Japan.

A soft, tearing pain circled somewhere in his solar plexus; throbbing in his head. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, exhaling softly.

On the bench near him, a butterfly lighted like gossamer. The trees seemed to hold their breath.

A deep, despairing loneliness cut through him, and he lifted his head to the sky.

_Michelangelo..._

The pain wasn't over. Not yet.

* * *

April finished with the dishes and dried her hands. She went into the living room and surveyed. Magazines on the coffee table, plant needing water. She moved to get the watering can.

A tap at the window made her turn. Something in her chest loosened, a slow warmth. Quickly, she hurried over and pushed it open, stepping back.

He crouched on the sill, a little shakily, and raised his head, the light casting shadows over the scars and making his dark eyes stand out against the orange mask. His jaw was trembling.

Without a word, April helped him down and wrapped her arms around him tightly, her heart aching.

Sometimes all you need is a shoulder to cry on...

* * *

### 11\. Illusion

_Shape without form, shade without color,  
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion; _

_Those who have crossed  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
Remember us - if at all - not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men. _

Sandra Blake pushed loose strands of hair out of her face again and bent over the monitor. "Damn it," she muttered. "Never mind...another fluke."

Jack Akira poked his head in. "You sure?"

"Yeah...the guy was lying. He's not a viewer." She gestured for him to come in and pointed to a spot on the screen. "See? No activity in these frontal lobes here. He faked it."

Akira sighed and shrugged. "Back to the drawing board, then..."

Nodding, Sandra shut off the screen and sat down, pulling her glasses off and running a tired hand across her brow. "Yeah..."

He paused on his way out. "Going home?"

"No...I have work to do. I'll sleep here."

He chuckled. "You might as well start bringing extra clothes, Sandy."

Smiling, she pointed to a gray duffel bag across the room. Akira groaned.

"See you tomorrow, Jack..."

"You too. Have a good night, Sandra."

* * *

The hours stretched and still they sat there with the tea mugs, his hands slowly starting to lose the tremble. April wasn't sure how to comfort him--what were you supposed to say to someone who experienced things more real than anything the five senses could throw at them? What were you supposed to say while you watched them stagger at the edge of the ravine?

"Mike..." she whispered. "I wish..."

"I know," he said quietly. "So do I."

 _He knows us inside and out,_ she mused, looking down. _He knows what we're going to think before we think it._ "Do you ever regret it?"

He looked at her. "Always."

* * *

"Raphael's depressed again, Master."

Splinter flicked an ear and looked up at him. Leo could almost hear it-- _What else is new?_

"Explain."

He sat, folding his legs under him; the motion so automatic he could do it in his sleep. "I'm not sure. He rarely leaves the bedroom, and when I check on him, he's usually just sitting on his bed with music playing."

Splinter cocked his head. "And why do you think he is depressed?"

Leo's shoulders lifted and fell helplessly. "I don't know--I can just...feel it. Sometimes I can tell what he's thinking."

"And what is he thinking?"

Leo closed his eyes and hung his head.

"I see." Splinter suddenly seemed closer; he opened his eyes to see the rat leaning forward.

"Is he his brother's keeper?" Splinter whispered, almost a quote.

He shifted his gaze to the floor, to the intricate rug patterns. "He loves Mike to death. We all do. None of us could stand to see...to see Mikey hurt. In any way."

"But what is holding Raphael in his personal darkness? That is the question you want answered."

"I'm afraid to know the answer," Leo whispered."Then, Leonardo, I suggest," and Splinter leaned back, folding his hands, "that you find Michaelangelo."

* * *

"What do you regret most?"

"I dunno...it's hard to start. I mean, I never asked for it. Yeah...maybe deep down I wanted it, but..."

"You just never expected it to be like this," April finished softly.

Mike closed his eyes. "I don't know."

"Nobody ever expects the things life throws at them," she said quietly. "Some things you just have to deal with, face the consequences."

"I thought I could," he whispered. "Now I'm not so sure. I feel like somethin's…I don't know, dying."

"Inside you?"

He closed his eyes. "That's already happened."

* * *

Raph held the charcoal drawing to the light and reached for the box of colored pencils, grabbing the deepest red he could find. The dragon screamed red.

Don had been right; he did feel better. All those hours of trying and failing and trying again; each crumple of paper, each stroke of pencil and charcoal…something inside him had focused to a point, blocked out everything else. He doubted he could do it again…but it felt good.

As he was tinting the claws a grayish brown, there was a knock at the bedroom door.

"What?" he snapped.

"It's me," Don said, and opened it. "Have you seen Mike anywhere?"

"Prob'ly went for a walk."

"What's that you're drawing?"

"A volcano in a soup kettle, what's it look like?"

Don folded his arms. "It looks like a dragon."

Raph grinned. "No wonder they call ya the smart one."

Don gave him a look. "Seriously. I found something he might be interested in. Where's Leo?"

Raphael shrugged again.

"Thanks for the help."

"Don't mention it."

Donatello left, closing the door behind him, and Raph bent back over the drawing, jaw set. And then, rather abruptly, the image of his little brother wedged itself firmly into his mind.

* * *

Sandra bolted upright, her office couch suddenly feeling too small. There were footsteps--just outside the door. She threw back the blanket and got up, the air chilling her bare arms. She'd need some sort of weapon…the chair? A metal crowbar lay across the desk. She grabbed it and stood facing the door, insides trembling.  
Nothing happened. Her muscles relaxed. But when she went back to the couch, she didn't fall asleep again.

* * *

April had gone to make more tea. Mike sat there in the slow, silent pre-dawn dimness, the lamplight nearby a shallow comfort. Sighing, he put his head in his hands, closing his eyes again. Everything felt detached, distant…he could suddenly see a long hallway with doors…

Not sure what else to do, he walked down, bathed in blue. Metal echoed curiously under and around him. He paused at one door, sensing another mind just beyond it. Alert. Frightened. A woman. _She must think I'm breaking in…_

Then it hit him. _Wait-I'm just projecting here…she shouldn't be able to_ …

He drifted through the door halfway and saw what looked like a control booth, a lab room connected to a testing ground behind a glass wall. He remembered those.

There was a computer desk, and a couch. The woman sitting there seemed familiar, but he couldn't place her. Long brown hair tumbling down her back, piercing blue eyes… She was just sitting there, shaking a little. _She needs sleep. I guess I scared her._ He reached out and lightly brushed her mind, spreading a gentle darkness over her thoughts. With a soft yawn, she lay down on the couch, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and closed her eyes.

Mike pulled away and opened his eyes just as April came back in. His head was throbbing lightly, and just as she sat back down, something else burst its way into his consciousness and he fell…

* * *

Raph jerked; the pencil dropped. There was no danger…no, it was…something else. Mike was…

_What? He's what?_

"Raph?" Don called from somewhere. He ignored it.

_What's wrong, Mike? What is it?_

Someone screamed. He thought he could see blood and smell singed flesh.

"Raphael!" This time Donatello flung the door open, and out of the corner of his eye Raph watched him stumble.

_Leo…?_

He felt him, somewhere near. Running, stumbling. _God…_

 _What's happening?_ came Don's weak thought.

Leo's urgency, the _need_ to get back…and Mike's soundless cries…

 _Something bad,_ he thought, gasping. _Something very bad…_

* * *

Jack bolted upright, fumbling for the lamp. But when he turned it on, all he saw was the shadow of a ghost.

"Not again," he whispered. "Not another one."

"I'm not a ghost," the figure said, almost pleadingly. "I don't know why I'm here. But you can help me. I know you can help me."

Akira blinked. The person didn't look--

"Wait--you're not human…are you?"

The apparition stepped forward. "Please…don't be scared. I didn't mean to come here…but I got pulled…and I'm here now…"

Akira blinked and shook his head. "You're a turtle."

"Yes."

"A humanoid…turtle."

"Please, Dr. Akira…I don't have a lot of time…"

"How do you know my name?" he whispered.

Large baby blue eyes met his. "The same way you do."

Swallowing he groped for a name and got it. "How did you get that name? That's a Renaissance artist."

"It's a long story." The turtle's form was flickering. "I can't…"

"What?" He threw back the covers. "What is it?"

"Just help me," the creature who called itself Michelangelo whispered. "I'm losing control."

Jack closed his eyes. He remembered what _that_ was like.

"I'll help you," he said. "Where are you physically?"

"No," the turtle said. "I want to come to you."

"All right," he whispered. "I'll give you the name of the lab I work at."

"Thank you," the turtle said, when Akira was done. And he was gone.

* * *

"Mikey?" someone murmured.

The back of his head throbbed, and a cool hand was gently tracing along the lines of his face. He opened his eyes. April frowned at him.

"Are you back?" she asked softly. "For a minute there I thought--"

"No, I'm okay now," Mike said, sitting up with her help. "Something, ah, pulled me."

"What happened?"

He closed his eyes, eased himself back onto the couch. "I got a premonition and thought I could block it…but something went wrong. I couldn't. I started scanning for someone who could help me, I was looking for a place to hide…I ended up projecting. I found someone."

"Who, Mike?"

"He's a doctor…works in a lab with remote viewing. He can help me. He said he would."

"Mike…" April took him by the shoulders. "Who is this person? Where is he?"

Mike glanced away for a minute. "Jack Akira. And…there's another one. I saw her before."

"Who?"

"Sandra Blake," Mike whispered. "And I have to find them, or I'm gonna lose it…"


	15. Chapter 15

Raph was brewing coffee when the front door creaked open. He turned, frowing, and--

"Mike! Where were you? We were worried."

"Sorry…I was at April's. I needed some time to think." Mike collapsed in a chair by the table.

"I think you did more than that," Raphael said gravely, handing him a mug.

"What do you mean?"

Sitting down, Raph looked at him. "Did anything happen?"

Mike frowned. "No, course not."

"Then what's wrong?"

Mike closed his eyes. "Nothing…everything. I'm sorry to do this to you guys."

Raph was shaking his head. "We'll deal with it, bro. Just tell us what's bothering you."

Sighing, Mike bit his lip. "I'm losing it, Raph. I'm trying to go back to Splinter's teachings, but it's not enough…I need people who understand. Like Sandra Blake and Jack Akira."

Raph nearly choked on his coffee. "You said Sandra Blake, right?"

"Yeah…?"

"We've been looking for her too."

* * *

"Didn't you guys get any sleep at _all?_ " Don asked. 

"I just got up at six to make coffee. Mike was the one up all night."

"I was at April's."

Don sighed. "I ran into Dr. Blake at the library a while back. I've been reading her books. I think she could help you, Mike."

Mike breathed out in relief. "Great.""Question is, where do we find her?" Leo asked.

Mike closed his eyes. "I think I can find the lab."

"Good." Don smiled and turned back to the keyboard.

"What are you looking for?" asked Leo.

"Maybe they're listed…"

"They should be," Mike said softly. "Quicksilver Labs."

"That's the name?" Raph frowned. "You sure?"

Mike gave him a look.

"Okay, sorry."

  
"I'm printing the map out now," Don said. "Let's hope this is the right thing."

"It is," Michaelangelo whispered.

* * *

"You're not going to believe this, Sandy…"

"You already told me about the mutant turtle bilocating--"

"Not that. This." Jack slapped his latest viewing sketch on the table in front of her.

Sandra looked up, frowning. "A manhole cover."

"More than that. I think it's connected to them."

"Them?"

"I got the feeling there were more than one turtle mutant... I think four of them. When I focused, I got the impression that one of them knows you."

"Me?" Sandra blinked. "I've never met them before."

Jack shook his head. "I kept getting impressions of a library…he was in a trench coat, you were there. You knocked some books out of your arms…"

Sandra closed her eyes. _The trench coat…his hands did look big…_

"Sandy?"

"I'm fine, Jack. I think you're right. I have seen them before."

"They need _our_ help."

"I know."

Jack sat down heavily, brushing dark hair out of his eyes. "Something's going to happen, Sandy. I can feel it."

She gave a half-smile. "Let's hope it's good. C'mon, let's get back to work."

* * *

"I just hope we're not chasing illusions," Leonardo murmured.

"I don't believe we are," Mike said quietly. "But something's gonna happen, and at this point I don't think we have much of a choice."

"We never did, Mike."

"No. We didn't."

* * *

  1. **Emotion**



_Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear:  
There, the eyes are  
Sunlight on a broken column  
There, is a tree swinging  
And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star._

He waited until she was out the door and down the steps, and then hurried to intercept her at the car.  
She had just put the key in the door—

“Dr. Blake?”

“Yes? Oh... it’s you again, I didn’t think I’d—”

He offered his hand; she noticed suddenly how huge and thick and green it was...

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Jack was right. You’re...”

“My name is Donatello,” he said quickly. “And my brother needs your help.”

* * *

“Where are you, Donnie?” Leo almost growled into his shell cell.

“Quicksilver Labs, just like Mike said.”

“We’ll be right there,” Leo said, and hung up his shell cell.

Raph and Mike stopped playing video games long enough to come over. “Was that Don?” Mike asked.

Leo nodded. “He found Dr. Blake. They’re at her lab right now.”

Raphael glanced at his younger brother and grinned. “Road trip.”

* * *

“I just can’t believe the theory was right,” she said, sipping the coffee carefully. “I mean, you’re _here._ And your brother— Michelangelo — how did you say he got it again?”

“Alien radiation,” Don said. “Although knowing Mike, it was probably just there all along. He’s always been sensitive like that, in the empathic sense.”

Sandra nodded, put the mug down. “Can I—just a little... can I touch you, again?” she asked. “I just want to feel...”

He smiled quickly, offered his hand across the table. She took it, studied the palm, the fingers, the lines in the skin, and Don found himself growing rather warm and comfortable, sitting here with her touching his hand, watching him, not afraid. Her hair was like autumn tumbling in waves, and he thought about it getting in her face when she worked, or when she wore glasses... he’d never seen hair like that.

“You’ve got great hair,” he said suddenly, and clamped his beak shut. Sandra glanced up, surprised.

“Well... thanks. I usually don’t get that compliment often, but thanks...”

"We don't interact with a lot of humans this closely, so, uh..."

"No, I get it! And I appreciate it. Same reason why I'm fascinated with you."

She finished looking at his hand and put it back down on the table, gently. Then she picked up a manila folder. “This is the stuff Dr. Akira—Jack—has been coming up with for the past couple weeks. They should probably look familiar to you, at least.”

Don took the folder, opened it, began rifling through the sketches. “He’s good.”

Sandra smiled. “One of the best.”

Something in her tone made him look up. “You like him?”

There was a quick pause, and she looked down. “I guess. I don’t know. He’s my research partner; we tend to get close in this line of work.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” grinned Don.

She grinned back. “I know. It’s deliberate.”

“No kidding.” They laughed, then, and Don put the drawings back in the folder, until one in particular caught his eye...

* * *

In the back seat, Mike leaned his forehead against the window and watched the trees. Trees didn’t seem think in any language he knew. Birds thought, but the minds of birds were small and simple. Thank god the M’Kari radiation came with built-in shields. He would have killed himself long ago. Or stayed dead...

_Whoops. Thinking about that again. Thinking about... god... I can’t..._

He swallowed hard. _That’s not fair._

The ghost with a thousand faces shook its head. _Life never is._

 _No,_ he thought. _Life is life. You gotta deal with the shit it gives you. You gotta make the best of it._

_But you aren’t doing that._

_I try!_

_Not anymore._

_I still try! I still..._

He clenched his fists, and only when Raph touched his shoulder did he feel the tears running down his face.

* * *

“...something wrong?”

He blinked. Sandra’s face was only inches away, frowning. “Is something wrong?” she repeated.

Don didn’t say anything for a few minutes. _Why did he draw— unless... I mean..._

He ran a finger over the sketch slowly. In what looked like the belly of a shadow, Michelangelo’s huddled figure crouched, hands over his head, eyes wide and staring and streaming dark lines of pencil-drawn blood down his face.

* * *

I could say I’m sorry.

_Why bother? What difference would it make anyway?_

More than you know...

* * *

They pushed open the double doors and met Don and the woman halfway down the hall. Raphael sniffed. “I thought it’d look more like a hospital.”

“Most people get that impression,” said Dr. Blake. “Come on, I’ll show you the rooms.”

The first viewing room was tiny, maybe half the size of a bathroom. Chair like something out of a dentist’s office; table, lights, monitors. There was an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Sandra noticed Raph twitching his hands, and smiled faintly.

“Everyone feels that effect when they’re in here,” she said. “The claustrophobia goes away once you’re relaxed enough. There’s red light and black light; we want to give the impression of being back in the womb.”

“So this is the smallest room?” Leo asked. She nodded.

The next one was much bigger, more yellows and whites. The third was bathed in shades of blue, black, almost eerie. They all had the same equipment, but much different feels.

“What’s with the color schemes?” asked Don.

“Different colored lights produce various psychological and physiological responses,” Sandra explained. “Some are used for relaxation, some are used to excite or motivate the subject. There’s also white noise involved, always. Usually the psychics who work here prefer the blue room, especially during long assignments.”

“Assignments?” Mike repeated, sounding anxious.

She smiled. “All those movies and stories about government psychic spies and astral travel can’t be wrong.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

They turned to leave, and were met by a tall, slim, black-haired man holding a manila folder. “Jack,” Sandra said, sounding pleasantly surprised. “These are the turtles.”

“I know.” Jack smiled in a way that showed he knew much more. “Pleased to meet you all. I’m Dr. Akira.”

“Likewise,” Leo said, and offered his hand.

Jack grasped it, and Leo automatically jerked— there was a faint, warm tingle up his arm, a buzzing in his head, and then it was gone.

He caught confused glances from Raph and Don. Mike wasn’t even paying attention. He and Jack were eye to eye, hands half raised as though poised to touch. Mike slowly folded his arms, looking incredibly relaxed. Jack was half-leaning on his right leg, eyebrow raised. Then, abruptly, they both burst out laughing.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mike chuckled.

Jack was shaking his head. “I’m serious."

"That's fantastic."

Raphael cleared his throat loudly. “Um, guys, not to spoil the fun, but the rest of us can’t read minds here.”

“Sorry,” Mike mumbled, fist at his mouth. “I don’t usually, y’know, get to do that often.”

Jack smiled. “I know that feeling.”

“It was weird. I haven’t done it since... since Carrie.”

Jack’s grin slipped a notch. “Oh. Right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mike said quickly, and turned. “Not your fault.”

He cracked his knuckles absently. Jack’s thoughts went gray—he found himself staring at a brick wall covered by mist. He really couldn’t blame the kid. Death was just another part of life.

* * *

It did not make him look like a pirate.  
It made him look like a hunter.  
Which was fine. He smiled. Hunting was what he did best anyway.  
The black patch itself was made of cotton, lined with silk for the feel. He ran his fingers down the scars lining his left cheek, circled the tip of his finger around the covered, spoiled eye itself.  
 _I hate you, boy, you know that? I hate you._  
Hate was a very strong thing. He normally didn’t need to waste his time feeling it. But he felt it now. There had been death. Everything had been destroyed. So there would be death again.  
But not on his side of the fence.  
The right side of his face, the good side, twisted as his lips curved in a strangely grotesque smile.  
His reflection grinned back.

* * *

Metal wall reflecting. For an instant, just a brief, agonizing instant, his face was not his face. Eyepatch. Scars. _Not my face,_ he knew. He knew. _Not mine._

Step by step, toward the main viewing room, a heartbeat behind the group. He closed off, even to Jack, to Raph. Walls. He needed to search.

Walls.

He needed to know.

Walls.

A sound of fluttering black wings, beating against a cracked window in his head.

Black.

Walls.

Silence.

Death.

A cold finger down his spine, a sound like ice breaking.

 _Hatcher,_ he thought.

_John Hatcher is back._

Suddenly, walls were not enough.

* * *

Leo whirled as his brother pitched forward; he could see Michaelangelo’s hands, against the metal wall, trembling, sliding. His face, strange colors in Leo’s head. Eyes were like walls. 

He suddenly remembered a song he’d once heard. Peter Gabriel. He didn't know why but the lyrics were in his head.

_Looking down on empty streets, all she can see, are the dreams all made solid, are the dreams all made real. All of the buildings, all of those cars, were once just a dream in somebody's head. She pictures the broken glass, she pictures the steam, she pictures a soul, with no leak at the seam._

“Mike?” he asked, slow motion, moving. “What’s wrong?”

Hand to his head, Mike looked at him, eyes like dark blue pools with no bottom.

_Let’s take the boat out, wait until darkness. Let's take the boat out, wait until darkness comes._

“It’s okay,” his brother said hoarsely. “Just got dizzy.”

“Are you sure?” Don chimed in. “You look... ”

Different, they all thought. All in unison. Transparent. Like you’re not supposed to be here. Be anywhere. Be _here._

_Nowhere in the corridors of pale green and grey. Nowhere in the suburbs, in the cold light of day. There in the midst of it, so alive and alone, words support like bone._

Michaelangelo shut his eyes and recited poetry, silently, his own words, his own chicken-scratch scribblings in a dozen notebooks.

_Pulling out the papers from the drawers that slide smooth, tugging at the darkness, word upon word._

Words support like bone, he thought. 

“I’m fine,” he said again, and Jack took his arm gently, helping him into the room with the rest of them.

_What do you look for when you dream?_   
_What do you see when you sleep with one eye open?_   
_Where do your nightmares breed?_

Strapped to the chair, electrodes cold and tingling, and Sandra and Jack at the controls in the booth. Paper and pencil on the table.

Experiment. Draw what you see. What do you want me to see?

It doesn’t matter. Anything. Whatever comes. We’re testing for reception. What’s behind the black curtain? Your target. But don’t look for it. Let it come to you.

_Dream._

What do you see?

_Close your eyes._

Take your time.

_Let it take over. Don’t be afraid._

Deep breath.

_I am not afraid._

Fear kills.

_I’ve already been dead._

Fear is the ultimate road. Don’t strive to control it, strive to understand it. Work with it. What are you afraid of?

_Dreams._

Why?

_Truth._

Dreams don’t always speak the truth.

_Speak for yourself._

I am. I am you.

The ghost with a thousand faces.

He lost hold on his mind, and fell.

* * *

Falling.

Donatello watched from the control booth as his brother slumped in the chair. On the monitors, respiration and heartbeat began a strange, staccato dance. Falling, rising, plummeting, soaring. Steady. 

Steady.

One. Beat.

Two. Breath.

Three. Beat.

Four Breath.

Memory.

Illusion.

Emotion.

Mind dance.

Behind him, Jack let out a gasp.

“What is it?” asked Sandra.

“He’s in deep,” Jack whispered. “I’ve never seen a trance that deep. And he put himself there.”

“Where... is he?” Raphael asked, behind a clenched, semi-frantic jaw.

Jack shook his head. “I’m trying to follow. I’m trying...”

Don tuned them out, watched the monitors. They were dancing. Mike’s brain was dancing. There were sections lit up, molten color, bright and beautiful—sections of the mind he never dreamed could ever awaken, could ever be active. Parts of the brain long hidden and stored away in the primal recesses of forgotten memory.  
 _Where are you, Mikey?_ he thought in fascination, hand pressed to the glass. _I would love to go with you._

And inside, somewhere tucked away in the very bowels of his consciousness, his brother’s whisper trailed, ragged, on an electric wind.

_No, Donnie. You wouldn’t. Not in my head._

He shuddered. He didn’t know why.

* * *

Falling.

Down.

He was in a Place. It was the only way to describe it. There was nothing to describe; the landscape seemed to be forming as he thought, as he breathed. A Place. His.

_Mine._

He thought, not in words, not images. Just thought.

Blue.

Sky blue, robin’s egg, blue like eyes, gray blue. The blue of emotion. The color of his eyes.

Colors exploded. Red. Purple. Blue. Yellow. Green.

Orange.

He shielded his eyes, realized he barely had substance. He couldn’t feel anything outside of himself.

_Raph? Jack?_

Nothing.

_Too deep. I have to get out of here._

_It’s beautiful._

No. It’s not my reality. It’s just a Place.

Wings beat near him. The white wings of a crane.

Symbolism, he thought.

A black raven in the distance.

_The bird of Death. The bird of Dreaming. The gateway between worlds._

Have you figured it out now?

_Who am I?_

I am Michelangelo. Mutant. Turtle. Telepath.

I am a doorway between worlds.

I am--

_I am._

Emotion became solid. He reached for its hand.

Muse.

Art.

Writing, painting, words, words, color, thought, think too hard, stop focusing, hyperfocus--.

_Hush, child._

“Who are you?” he whispered without a voice.

_Who do you want me to be?_

The ghost with a thousand faces. The embodiment of my emotion.

_Emotion is genderless, but allocates to the nature of the one who holds it. You are yin and yang. Male and female and outside that binary. Light and dark. Sun and moon. So I am you._

“I know.”

_Good._

“Are you M’Kari?”

_No._

“Just asking.”

_You are only who you make yourself to be. What others give you is merely life._

There was a gentle touch on his forehead. He closed his eyes.

* * *

And opened them.

Falling.

Back.

“Welcome back,” an amplified voice said. Microphone. The control booth. Sandra.

“Was I gone?” he asked sleepily.

“For about fifteen minutes. Where were you?”

Mike smiled. “Nowhere in particular."

“Did you get the target?”

“A bird,” he said. “Two. A crane and a raven. Took me a while, though.”

He felt her smile. “Good job. Jack’ll help you out of that, and you can come over here and tell us where you went.”

In the silent, gray ravine of thought, there was a flutter of black wings.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if I'll ever finish it, but I might use it to inspire similar fics. Why not.


End file.
